Learning Curve '02 - The Boys

     What to do for a topper on day two? Truly our minds didn't actually ask that question. The way things had gone, we'd take it as it came. Maybe more surprises. Maybe not. Our original Plan Three had us heading all the way to Claw Lake  today. Considering our mid-morning launch, that didn't seem likely. But what the heck. We'd passed the test of not crossing Reed. Neatly sidestepped the baptism of the Four Mile Portage. If we could stare down the impossible and walk away with much easier fish to fry elsewhere, why we were capable of not doing most anything. We'd put the boat in the water, point her upstream and see what we would see.
     From our camp to Elbow Lake, the Grass was a knockout. Four sets of rapids, brief, deep cut stretches between, dappled sunlight and enough depth to make paddling a breeze. Immediately above our fishing hole rapids was a pool so thick with walleyes we had to shoo them away with our paddles so the canoe would float. We'd thrown a few spinners at them the night before with no success. Probably in the spawn.

     Fifty yards above lay our first choice. Walk the canoe through a rock-filled shallows or pump it up a chute. My mind thinking of scratches on the new canoe and wet feet, we pumped. A simple minute long dig, dig, dig. But over the days I couldn't leave it behind. Grew to be an obsession. Constantly reminded me that when we returned, the chute would be waiting. Down we'd come. Have to hang a sharp right to avoid rapids below. We'd roll for sure. The canoe would burst into flames. We'd go down like Vikings but like the Minnesota football team, not in glory. End up encased in plastic. Wouldn't need caskets. Sink to Norsemen Hell. Doomed, doomed, doomed (per Maynard G. Krebs).

     The portages were fairly short. We played at being real men by carrying two packs per trip. Each set of fast water provided it's own spin on beauty. Seven Bald Eagles, heads aglow in sunlight, chowing down on walleyes. So many down feathers on the ground we could have made pillows. Bald Eagle pillows. How illegal is that? Couldn't resist taking one of the largest feathers and wedging it in our bow. Nice wilderness touch to serve as our guide.
     The third portage, around an island where the Grass split into a half dozen tumbling rivulets, was the longest. Ended past an abandoned railroad trestle over the river. The trestle was partly gone, a pick-up-stick pile of timbers beneath. One sawn off beam was signed, 'CLEARED BY R. LUNDIE.' Collapsed or blown up, we could not tell. 'Twas odd country along the Grass.
     The beauty ended as we entered the Realm of Skeletor for the first time in four years. Hadn't gotten a whole lot greener. Brown reeds, charred stumps, blue sky and heat. A mile in and we were pooped in the toulies. Long sleeves, long pants, wool socks and boots. Dressed wrong for summer in the swamp. Kept our eyes open for gators. Floated in a shallow, mud bottomed bay. Had a smoke and sipped warm lemonade. Claw Lake seemed like the other end of the world.
     That's when Chinaman's Island came to the rescue. Chinaman'd caught my eye the first time I saw a map of Elbow Lake. Drew me like only the politically incorrect can. Got a wry smile on my face and thought, "they sure don't name 'em like that anymore." Now, sittin' in the swamp, the island seemed like The place to be in the Northland on a Sunday night. Get the gumption goin' and we could have an evening to scope out the portage. Maybe wet a line.
     High on life once again. Nine miles of paddling now seemed like child's play. Less than an hour later we passed the point where we'd turned around in '98. Back in the split personality of Elbow. A cluster of fire spared spruce and pine here and there. Mostly whippy aspen. We paddled on in hopes of the return of primeval splendor when we neared the far end of the lake. But there was the compensating grace of islands. Many islands. Twenty-five square miles of water so broken up by islands it felt instead like dozens of little lakes. Easy to navigate. Well, easy so long as I occasionally scanned the map hanging from the aft thwart. I'm a firm believer in my ability to screw up. So I keep a tight rein on my brain when that's important. Like being on a fifteen thousand acre lake with a few hundred islands.
     Chinaman played coy with us. Couldn't see it until we came around the last island. There she was. And so were two boats, two umbrella tents, a bed mattress on the immense landing slab and a guy in a red union suit standing on the shore. Staring at us like we'd we'd been dropped from a Zeppelin. Our fifth trip in the park and not once had we seen anyone else camping. Nada. Much less some total asshole in long johns with the overbearing ego to have been squatting on our island. No problem. We'd just sit there on the water, in the sunlight, fire up a couple of Players and stare bullets. We'd show him some serious distainin'. Who's boss now Underwear Boy?
     Finally, he knuckled under like the sniveling coward he was. Headed into a tent. Left us and our bullets sweatin' in the sun. A minute later he came back out. We'd embarrassed him into pants and shirt. Stretched, fiddled with his zipper and strolled on down to the shore like he's gonna piss in our direction. Instead, cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, "You guys want a beer, eh?"
     Didn't need to say a word. Smokes now dangling from lips, the paddles arose instantly. We paddled in like the Voyageurs we were pretending to be. Not the time to look sloppy with beer on the line. A half spin and parallel park. Tight to shore like that was the only way we knew how to do it. A true Gentleman of the Northland there to greet us.
     There were four of them. All from Flin Flon to our west on the Saskatchewan border. LaBatt's on ice. Lots of it. In cans, alas. Bottles would have been the civilized choice. A pint glass even more so. Ah well, such are the sacrifices one makes in the wilderness. But even from the can such a fine Canadian pilsner would have proved itself an excellent accompaniment to the biblical locusts and honey. Would have relabeled it Baptist Brew, A Blessing in Disguise. Crap, two thousand years late again.
     For the next quarter hour we chatted. Mostly the usual social introductory stuff. Weather, fishing, the pros and cons of String Theory, Free Will versus Predestination. All more or less the internationally acceptable way of checking each other out without sniffing each other's orifices like dogs.
     Yes there was a Chinaman who'd lived on the island. Had a gold mine. Now filled in and a plaque alongside. We took their word for that. I felt had we sauntered over, we'd have said to ourselves, "Yup, there it is." Walked around it once or twice and moved on. The Boys said his name was Wong. But I may be wrong about that.
     The good news was they'd been catching a lot of walleyes. One at thirty-one inches. They weren't impressed but their standards were a lot higher than ours. What seemed to impress them was the single whitefish they'd boated. The significance of that was lost on us southerners.
     As luck would have it Chinaman's Island had not been their first campsite. Friday night had found them a mile and a half away. The noise from a raven's nest had driven them out. What kind of men did this area spawn? Fans of whitefish and unable to sleep because of some baby birdies? Sounded a lot like the 'Hoser Princesses and the Pea' to us. To make up for our loss they said we were welcome to camp on the far side of the island. Not this camper. Turned them down. Too small a world in my eyes to share ten acres with a quartet of Canucks. And maybe the ghost of an Asian. We thanked them for the brew and moseyed.
     They were right about the other campsite. For sure, the landing was flat as a board spectacular. And wide? A dozen boats could have landed simultaneously. Even had a fine scrap plywood and two by four table. Looked like it had been thrown together at random by a one-armed, rock wielding, bent-nail driving, bipolar, blind man in a drunken fury. Also, it looked as though whoever had camped there before us had caught quite a few walleyes. And'd not given much thought to tidying up. The ravens were there for sure. Babies constantly screaming, "Feed me! Feed me!" Mom and Dad screaming even louder, "All right already! Stop with the yelling! Those dumbass Yanks are down by your stinking dinner!!! If you little pricks are up all night again, NO MORE NINTENDO!!" But all considered it was a pretty nice site. After twenty miles on the water and three portages, having a spot to put up the tent was enough. The landing, moss bed for the tent and panoramic view, all plusses.
     Supper number two was a repeat of ribeyes. Livin' off da feedlot fat of da lan'. By the time eight p.m. rolled around we were cleaned up, packed away and headed into Claw Bay to check out what the next morning would offer. Threw in the fishing gear just in case. The map showed a stream draining Claw Lake into Centre Lake. A portage was indicated. The stream exited Centre and flowed into Elbow. A rapids was marked but no portage drawn in. I figured there must be a short carry there. Maybe thirty or forty rods. Hopefully our reconnaissance would tell the tale.

     Nearing the end of Claw Bay we could see the beginning of a fifty yard long beaver dam. Behind it a bit of swamp through which a mini-delta spread out. Leprechaun country. The dam stood three inches above lake level. Not a problem. We'd spit the canoe over like a watermelon seed. A half dozen rods short of the dam we were surrounded by swirls and Vs. Big swirls and Vs. Al snapped around wanting to ask if we could stop and fish first. Too late. I already had a rod in my hands. That portage wasn't goin' anywhere. We had better things to do for the moment.
     They were only pike. Big pike. Not a one under thirty inches. A couple over forty. Seeing as how we happened to be pike men, it was heaven on the water. They were laying in foot deep water. Towed us to the right. Towed to the left. And out into the bay. Once in the deeper water we gave the pike a rest and played with the walleyes. Had we a net, Al could've boated a seriously big one. Master Angler size. We got a couple of looks and she was gone.
     After an hour of play we slid over the dam. The left side of the delta looked impassible. The right, a mere living hell. Of course that's on a city boy heaven-hell scale. The landing was fine. What followed wasn't. About eighty rods of uphill brush, thicket, hands and knees crawl under tree branches and a steep twenty foot drop to the stream. No doubt we could do it. Just didn't look like much fun. Dragging a canoe while crawling was low on my pecking order of things to do. When they said 'there's a first time for everything,' I don't think they had this in mind.
     Back on the water we commenced to hoot and holler again. When the sun sat on the treetops it was time to head back to camp. Hard to leave fishing like we'd had. paddling out of Claw Bay we ran into The Boys From Flin Flon motoring out of theirs. Seemed they'd done okay. Had a boatful. And wondered what we'd been yelling about. They were nice enough to say that big pike were a lot of fun to catch. But the way they said it told us otherwise. "Pity the poor Yanks catching jackfish. Better than suckers I guess."
     Whether from pity, friendship or to get rid of the evidence, they invited us to a fish fry. Three things weighed on me immediately:
     1) It was Sunday. I'd been raised a Catholic. Fish was for Fridays, roasts for Sunday,
     2) Something suspicious about their willingness to cook for strangers, and
     3) It was starting to get dark. Now in my mid-fifties, I made it a point of never paddling on a large,
virtually unknown, island filled, wilderness lake after midnight. The idea of sleeping in the bottom of a mosquito filled canoe held no appeal.
     So I refused. But they insisted. Again I refused. Again they insisted. Finally, in confusion, I said yes when I meant no. We paddled off into the tender night toward an unknown destiny. In the distance the ravens called, "Never more! Never more!"
     Camping in Canada, Canuck style. Obviously we were doing it wrong from the moment I bought my first canoe. Seemed all canoemen did it wrong. Simply a matter of logistics I guess. At least two sizable aluminum boats were required to carry a minimum of four adults, half dozen cases of beer, a case or two of hard liquor, ten pounds of beer batter, queen sized mattress (maybe two), two aging canvas tents, full kitchen with metal propane stove table, bent nails and graying lumber, lawn chairs w/drink holders, generator, 55" rear projection television, satellite dish, inflatable companionship, four chests of ice, fishing gear and the inevitable Anne Murray shrine complete with upturned half bathtub.
     Bubba handled the fish. Beginning to end. Yes, even in Canada, Bubba lives. By hissing propane lantern light he turned recently deceased pickerel into sizzling filets faster than we could turn the filets into future compost. While Bubba created, the five of us got to know each other. We covered all the bases. Vietnam? "I saw the movie." Had to laugh about that one. Deliverance? "How do you know that might not be happenin' right now, eh? " Music? All six of us sang "Snowbird" in four part harmony. Twice. The filets just kept coming 'til we could eat no more. But The Boys kept insisting, "Eat. Eat," like we were being fattened up for the oven.
     After a couple of beers, Al was asked if he'd like anything else to drink. He stroked his chin. A moment's thought. "Maybe a gin-tonic?" They apologized for having no fresh lime but Al was okay with that. Being the designated navigator, I slowly sipped my second LaBatts. And pondered what the chances were for being pulled over for a CWI when thirty-five miles off the road.
     Work? Three in the smelter. One in Public Works. "So long as people drink water and shit, I've got a job." In the years since, I've passed that line down many a time. We could tell job security was high on their list of importance. To this point they'd been having what passed for fun in the backwaters of Canada. On one hand, another day off was what they wanted. On the other, a paycheck was what they needed. "You guys got a satellite phone?" Never been asked that question before. Their look of disappointment when I said no, was heartwrenching. But I almost got American on them and nearly blurted out, "What the hell is your problem? Fishin's fun but a job's one of the hubs of your life." Where were my priorities?
     We definitely had a good time. No doubt about it. But sittin' around sipping cocktails in the boonies didn't seem like a real wilderness experience. Sure, Sigurd Olson and his fellow Voyageurs had their dutchman of rum. Their nightly pick-me-up mixed with fruit crystals. However, I don't remember references to any of them ever being totally wasted (Forgive me for the following. I mean no disrespect to a Minnesota icon):

     "Tony was of no use the following morning. Time and again I feared he'd tumble out of the canoe as we shot rapids after rapids. Such fast water. And Tony with such a hangover. For all his years as a diplomat, in the give and take of international affairs, he could now utter nothing but simple guttural phrases. For the first time in all our travels, I was thankful I spoke no Dutch."

     Some time after one p.m. it was time to leave. More simply, we had to get the hell out of there. I couldn't put away the thought that somewhere out there, a mile and a half away, in a cluster of islands, was our once-seen campsite. In the moonless Canadian dark, our map was useless. With only starlight above, islands were nothing more than shadows. Wasn't spooky so much as nearly invisible. Alcohol probably didn't help much either.
     As we walked down to the canoe, our long-johned friend called out, "You guys need a light?" Idiot. Like a flashlight would do us any good trying to find a point in the middle of the nowhere night. "No thank you." Mom always said we should be polite when in the wilderness. He insisted, "C'mon, you gotta have a light." "No thanks." Give it up Hoser. Went on a couple more times. Finally, as we paddled off, a can of LaBatts Lite came arcing our way. Funny man.
     Finding the island turned out to be no problem. Al had his doubts. But Lord only knew how much gin was in his drink. Did it the logical way. Started with the first island on the right. And listened for our little black feathered friends. Second island was the charm. Had a last smoke. Watched a small show of Northern lights. Brushed teeth and turned in. Starting to think this was the trip we were meant to go on. Plans get you out the door. And that's about it.
     Monday morning seemed a lot like most monday mornings. Didn't want to go to work. Wind was up.  Sky was blue. And we had great fishing at our doorstep. Two a.m. bedtime did little to pump us. Didn't know how Allan felt but the idea of that first portage seemed like a tuesday thing to me. No complaints from him. So we fished and took it easy. Wasn't as great as Sunday night but still pretty good. Tuesday. Yeah, tuesday. Gonna be some kinda a fun.

        

Learning Curve '02 - First Day

     The Canadian Weather Channel guaranteed no rain for at least five days. Highs in the '60s and low'70s. Huzzah. We woke up pumped. Primped for the last time. Pulled on our fancy zip-offs and pranced to the front desk. There we stoked up on a high sugar continental breakfast. The morning of mornings. Today we'd become men, real canoemen. Out the door. Fired up the Players. Hit the road. Genuine bakery-made sweet rolls in the Jeep to continue the carb load. Stuff 'em in. Burn 'em out on the water. What with the forecast and a little ( lot) luck we might even be camping on Morton that night. Hung a right on Highway 39 toward Reed Lake. So excited the calories burned off faster than we could shove them in.
     All was as it should be. The electricity built with each passing mile. 'Til we passed the first bay on Simonhouse. Double-take. An actual double-take when we saw the ice stacked up on the shore. Looked like the whole lake was open. But ice? Nothing about ice in the playbook. We hung a left into the campground to get the lowdown. Put this ice crap behind us as soon as possible. Needed someone to hold our hands and tell us it was going to be alright. No Ranger in the office. No one at the dock. Ghost town. Finally, we came upon three gentlemen as we passed through the sites. Nine-thirty a.m. and they were already well into cocktail hour. Had a second tent for their liquor supply. No exaggeration. In five minutes of conversation we learned:
     1) The ice had been out for two days,
     2) Lake trout should be called Canadian carp,
     3) If not in the frying pan within ten seconds of being caught, lake trout caused terminal trots and
     4) Gene had been abducted, probed and was going to give birth to an alien life form.
     Finding some of this information informative, we were uplifted, told Gene he'd make a wonderful mother and were back on the road whistling a happy tune.
     I know, I know. You've heard this dream garbage before. But this one was so close to reality. And I'd had it the night before we left home. Allan and I were stuck in bumper to bumper traffic on the way into the Reed lake access. Finally entering, it looked like a scene from the "Great Outdoors" with John Candy and Dan Akroyd (both Canadians by the way). Cars, trucks, trailers everywhere. A mob scene. On the lake humongous power boats cruised by. Seemed like Disney World North, not an entry point to the boonies.
     Reality. Allan and I turned into the Reed Lake access. Cars, trucks, trailers everywhere. People milling about. On the lake powerful walleye boats slowly cruised by in the hundred feet of open water between shore and the icepack. Holy crapamundo! Should have brought the dog sled. No longer an entry point to the boonies for us. Took a half second to accept the situation. We got out to look at the iced-in lake. Some guy wandered by, maybe looking for sympathy. Mumbled something about his second freezeout in seventeen years. Bummer dude. And our condolences to all the other bummed out dudes. Their wad was shot. A winter of waiting and the lake was a glacier. Seems big boats have their limitations. Old Man Balance occasionally pays a visit. You gain speed and the ability to pee over the side. You lose flexibility. Sometimes you go real fast. Sometimes you don't move at all.

Ready for the L.L. Bean Catalog 

     But we had a backup plan. And a ten minute drive back to Iskwasum. Had to find Mr. Ranger and get a park pass for the Jeep. Another tour of a campground. We found our man, or should I say his truck, parked outside the latrine. Not knowing whether he was cleaning up or emptying out, we respectfully waited outside. The brush and broom he toted out told the story. Seemed he wasn't quite done so we headed to the office to wait. A few minutes later while I filled out the forms, Al grilled the man for fishing information. All he got was a "beats me, eh." And that Reed was the only iced-in lake. Good enough. We were goin' up the Grass.
     While we took it out and put it in, we were once again serenaded by a chorus of griping. This time about the slow bite. Seems no one was catching anything down river, the usual hot spot. The Ancient Mariner shuffled by chanting, "Too cold. The pickerel are still in the spawn. Couldn't get nuthin' but a couple of Jacks on the line." Sounded like an audition for the latest Robert Redford movie. Me and Al were an upbeat island. Humming and loading. Headin' forty miles up river and two weeks to burn. A little bit of heaven. Our only immediate concern was a re-sort of gear. No Four Mile Portage. We were packing everything but the bath mat. Twenty minutes later we pushed off. Going places we'd never been before. How good was that?
     Couple a miles up the cattail lined river and a turn north into Iskwasum. Somewhere, a dozen or so miles ahead, was our vaguely marked campsite. Supposed to be below a rapids. Maybe on shore, maybe not. Around eight thousand acres, Iskwasum took us north, then arced northwest. The lake was ours alone. Seemed most of the big boat boys chose to head downriver.
     Except for one annoying buzz. Like a horsefly coming from a ways back. Didn't have the high tech roar of a 150 Mercury. Most likely some old fart in a tri-hull. Over the years we'd been passed by a truckload of fishing boats. Most huge. Most kept their distance. All ignored us. This guy didn't. Go away. But he didn't. Slowed and pulled alongside. Great. Probably a game warden.
     Wasn't. No uniform. Maybe the law incognito. Gonna arrest us for being happy in a No-Smile Zone. Had a bouncing black lab aboard. Fourteen foot Lund, rear tiller, twenty horse engine. Boat covered inside and out with enough product decals to do a NASCAR driver proud. Mid-forties, hatless, fit looking, leather skinned, name of Bob. Said he was a fishing guide off on a lark to catch him some walleyes below the rapids upstream. Easy to talk to. Liked him from the get-go. In twenty-five words or less we gave him the lowdown on our plans. Probably was our canoe that had him ask if we'd heard of Hap Wilson. Well I had, but at the moment I drew a complete blank. I figured it was worth a bucket of points if I knew Hap from Woodrow. So I said something like, "The name sure sounds familiar. Yeahhh, that's the ticket."  Bob gave us a nod, said he'd meet us at our campsite. He'd be the one throwing a ball for his lab to fetch. Fired it up and was gone.
     To this point nothing had gone by the playbook. An unexpected pleasure. Paddling into the northwest arm we passed an elderly couple doing what Manitobans do for fun. Bob had put us in a talkative mood so we shouted a brief conversation in passing. Yup, they were catching some pickerel. Not big but definitely some. I could easily imagine their quiet conversation between the occasional walleye. Klaus had been a spy for the Czechoslovakian government when they'd met in Montreal. Clarissa made dumplings laced with strychnine and liked to torch houses she felt were improperly maintained. Once every few years they vacationed in Argentina where they visited friends from the old country. "Ach the good old days. You didn't like someone, they disappeared. No questions asked."
     Iskwasum turned into the Grass at a small shot of fast water. Seemed a hot spot. The pool below looked a lot like "Canuck Families Hammerin' Pickerel," by Monet. Each of the three boats had staked out its territory in the two acre pool. One tied to shore, stringer in six hands, smiling for the family album. We passed through, unheard and unseen. Seemed only Bob could detect a canoe on the water. Were we a part of the Canadian past most everyone wanted to forget?
     Guess who came to visit as we bucked our way up the dropoff? Remember the Ghost Fish from '98. There they were again, stuck in their little limbo, still searching for wayward souls on the Grass River. Passed right beneath us. No doubt out to do us in. "Come on boys, give us a look-see." Turn us sideways in the current. Roll us over. Split us in half on the sharp rocks. No sir. Not this cowboy. Wasn't gonna descend into their picayune version of hell. I yelled for Al to move his eyes forward and dig deep. In the calm above I knew just how Odysseus felt.
     Upstream we went. Had a man and dog to meet. Can't say I wanted them to be there. Wasn't used to such a high density of population in the park. Our contact with others, until today, had been limited to a few nods, waves and good-days. I liked that arrangement. Just me and Al. That was enough. But I gotta admit there was a little tingle inching it's way up my spine (could have been the uncomfortable plastic canoe seat). Something about this guy seemed like the real deal. A throwback. Maybe not to the wooly past but at least to the '50s.
     He was there. So was the still bouncing dog. The ball was flying off a tiny island that nearly blocked the stream.  We landed. I pressed him for his name. He hesitated. Like he knew he'd be the unwitting subject of a blog someday. Said, "Just call me Bob wit de black lab. Say that and most everyone around here'll know who you mean, eh." My God, you could make a movie about his voice. Like he'd gone to school to learn how to speak Canadian. Guided both hunting and fishing as the seasons dictated. Toured the States come winter with the All-Canada shows. Seemed to be a product rep for most every kind of fishing gear. That explained the boat decorations. Said he was lucky to have an understanding wife. Big time understatement for sure. His Lund turned out to be twenty years old. You'd never guess that from its new-boat shine. Reminded me of the barracks trash cans back at Fort Campbell. They'd been Brassoed smooth by a generation of screw-up trainees. A couple of those coats laid on by my hands, thank you.
     Ball goes out. Dog goes out. Ball and dog return. Repeat ad infinitum.
     Hap Wilson enters the conversation again. My memory still a blank. Bob says he was the man who guided the Wilson's though the park. Bob next mentions Hap's wife and her waist length blonde braid. Bingo! There we go. Her picture on the back cover of "Canoeing Manitoba's Wilderness Rivers" has stuck with me. Odd what a person recalls. Turned out when I was BS-ing about remembering Hap Wilson, I wasn't. Maybe something mystical going on there. I don't know if I understand that.
    Ball goes out. I'm bouncing back and forth trying to get the canoe unloaded but accomplishing nothing. Am considering diving in to get the ball. Finally, Al and Bob get the unloading ball rolling. Two minutes later we light up. Bob isn't smoking Players. I consider for a moment that real outdoorsman don't smoke Players and have fears that I'm a wuss. He says he knows of a lake where the walleyes are fish a cast. Invites us along if we don't mind getting our feet wet. The talk turns to canoes, wilderness, the back country and American sports in big boats.
     "Dey tink dere seeing de real Canada. But dey don't have a clooo, eh? Paddle and portage (pronounced the French way). Take your time. Work your way back in de bush. You guys are doin' it de right way."
     Continues, says we should get a Dagger canoe like the Wilson's. It's fast. Real fast. I find a stick. Draw a straight line. "That's them." Draw a zig-zag. "That's us." That got a laugh from the man.
     Al starts heads off on an angle he's gotten pretty good at. We're talking with a font of outdoor knowledge, so Allan throws a few lake names at Bob. Heard of some. Not heard of the others. Hadn't fished any of them. Then Al asks about Barb Lake to our immediate northeast. "Dat's de lake I wass telling you abouoot (not sure of correct Canadian spelling)." Score one for Allan. Guess he does pay attention when I ramble on about fishing.
     Before leaving, Bob offers us some walleyes for dinner. Oh yeah, he knew where the pickerel were on the bite.  I had to turn him down. Didn't want to but I did. The ribeyes had thawed and were calling our names. Bob understood. He turned to Al, "You've gotta cool old man." Made my day.
     After supper we fired up the canoe. If the rapids were good enough for Bob, they were more than good enough for us. Late Spring in the Northland. Upstream we passed several small ice shelves. As the river narrowed down, the current picked up. Fifty feet wide and we were surrounded by a whole lotta swirlin' walleyes. Good spot? Great spot. The river, a cut in the forest with a slice of sky above. The rapids ahead were half the stream's width. Almost a falls shooting down a rock jumbled slide. The landing was torture. Sharp edged rocks everywhere. My poor, poor brand new, scratch-free baby. A virgin no more. Close up of tear on cheek.
     Once ashore, Al grabbed a rod. Worked his way across a boulder field to a spot alongside the tumbling water and began to do his thing. Closer to shore, I caught me some pickerel. A bunch of 'em. Didn't seem at all shy about hitting home made spinners. But Al? He put me to shame. Like watching a ballet. Perched on chunk of granite seemed all he could do was maintain his balance, set the hook and serenade me with "Fish on." He was having a great time but it was my pleasure watching him.
     What a night. What a day. No way I could have guessed our third choice, the dull choice, the anybody could do it choice, would have gone like this. Maybe our best day in Canada. Was it only sixteen hours since we walked out of the Super 8? We paddled back to camp as the sun dropped into the forest. Hoped it didn't start any fires.

Learning Curve '02 - The Plan

     Guess you could say this trip began in '98 when our first crude maps of Grass River Park showed up in the mailbox. In '98 we didn't figure the trip of '02 was in our future. But one thing led to another. Next thing we knew it's the fifth year of a tradition. So, off in the northeast corner of that page sized map was this incredibly long portage snaking somewhere to the north. I'd like to say that I'm looking at that map right now. But I'm not. It disappeared. Probably back in '98. Maybe I dreamt it. You know how those things go. You remember it clear as a bell, like yesterday, a photograph. Had to be just like that. Of course it's usually not. That map may not have existed. I can accept that and all it's weirdness. But there was no doubt I gave it some 'what if?' thought. On that maybe, not to scale map, she was at least four knuckles long. Mile, mile and a half to the knuckle. Called it a five miler. Five miles? Ooo-eee, that's a long portage. Only a true idiot or one serious gear-humpin' maniac would do something like that. No way in God's green earth I'd ever remotely, even jokingly, consider such a sure fire ordeal. Done enough of that kinda crap in Vietnam for a lifetime, thank you.
     Turned out that Unknown Portage became like a rough spot on a molar. You know, something that doesn't much bother you but once in a while your tongue finds it and can't leave it alone. On first seeing it, I'd pointed it out to Al. We both had a good laugh.
     Guess it stuck with Allan also. Might even have been his idea. Maybe mine. But sometime during the winter of '02, our thoughts turned toward doing a long hike with a couple hundred pounds of gear on our backs. The more we thought about it, the more we talked about it. In a way kinda like trash talk. Next thing we knew, it was the plan for the next trip. I've said this before. I'll say it again. We be idiots.
     Couldn't do it without new maps. Turned out the portage even had a name. The Four Mile Portage. A little thought and interpretation, I figured it to be between three and five miles. Connected The Grass River and Burntwood River drainage systems. Must be an easy four-miler or it would have been named for some dude who died doin' it. A lot of straight lines on the map. Didn't cross any swamps. Our kind of honker portage.
     Let's talk four miles. In the city, an hour. In the woods, bad footing, hills, bog, deadfall and sixty-five pounds of carry stretches the miles. No way either one of us could pick up a hundred thirty pounds much less hump it four miles. So we're talking leap-frog stages. Four evolves into twelve. Eight under load. Four, a resting return for more stuff. So how long would that take? My guess was five to six hours.
     Oh yeah, I almost forgot. First we'd have to cross Reed lake. Ten miles on a straight line to the portage with a fifteen mile wide open stretch for the wind to pump up. Big assed Reed scared me. Hap Wilson wrote he'd been caught in six-footers crossing Reed when a storm blew up. Markie don't do six-footers. Makes me uneasy having hitch hiking Death add it's weight to the canoe. In my book, even though it's necessary, Death sucks. No offense. Should a breeze blow up, even an idiot like me would have to wait it out or follow the shoreline. Barring near calm, ten becomes fifteen. Probably four hours. If a headwind, a bit more. So did we want to do the Four Mile Portage immediately after the crossing? At most, maybe.
     Here comes my favorite part. Irony. I love irony. So we get a good, early start crossing Reed. Glass on the water. Maybe a slight tailwind. We spring across the portage with wings on our feet. Still, we'd be pooped after eight or nine hours of solid work. Where do we end up? Morton Lake. Three thousand acres of fine fishing per the Grass River Lodge website. That is if you're a Canadian citizen or an American staying in the Lodge's outpost on Morton. The Peters boys couldn't legally wet a line. Guess we'd been paying the wrong dues. Not my business to question the reasons behind that law. We were guests of Canada. I did however have my suspicions.


                                               Emil

     You've got to forgive my nephew about running on about stuff most people don't care to know. Spent many an hour in the boat with him just sayin' "Uh-huh," over and over while he ranted on about the number of nails it took to build his outhouse. At least an outhouse is a fitting topic for him.
     As to his fishin' trips, you should see his first attempt at putting all of them on paper. Like he was back in High School having to write a thousand word essay. And couldn't think of more than three hundred worth saying.
     Mostly though, he's writing this so's he can print it up when he's done. Throw in some pictures and come up with a book or two for him and Allan. Then when Markie's an old, drooling fool, he can remember the days when he was only a fool.

     Lucky for us our destination wasn't Morton. Next lake north was File, then what the locals call Little Norris Lake and finally Norris proper. Actually Little Norris' real name is Padruski. But who can remember that, eh? A total of about twenty-five water miles and five portage. One way. And then the return. A fair hump for us pansies. Three days in and three days on Norris. Putz and fish our way out. Two weeks. Never gave much thought to the fishing. Once over the big portage it was all fly-in country. Had to be beyond good.
     Should the weather be like the Wedge Lake trip, we needed a backup plan. Should the thought of the Four Mile Portage or crossing Reed scare us off, we needed two. Should one of us win the lottery, we might go to Hawaii and ocean fish from kayaks. The first backup, the 'fear of blisters' plan, had us hug the south and east shores of Reed. Head a dozen miles up Woosey Creek to Woosey Lake, spend a week and return. Bunches of options on the way. Small rapids, short portages. Still having to deal with Reed was the one hangup.
     The 'total chicken-out' plan was hatched back in '99. We'd asked the Ranger at the Simonhouse campground if it was possible to go upstream on the Grass River. "Maybe, eh. Who knows?" A good enough answer for us. We'd paddle up the Grass from Iskwasum Lake, into and across Elbow. Then one, maybe two, portages into Claw Lake. Forty miles one way. Piece of cake. But no tingle of excitement to it. No death march aura. Probably some good fishing on Claw.
     The thoughts of winter turned to weight loss. Seeing as how we were both pretty lean we figured most of the paring down would have to be with gear. Odd how when weight goes down, price goes up. No way would we cut down on food or fishing stuff. So it was air mattresses, sleeping bags, clothes and canoe (ouch). I was hoping for at least twenty pounds.
     Campmor catalog. Overstock and factory second. Words to live by. The catalog saved us four pounds of sleeping weight for less than two hundred bucks. Don't make me do the math. It hurts me to spend money. Don't want to talk about it.
     The canoe was the deal. A friend bought the Camper. Fit his needs, no longer fit ours. Still, it was like saying goodbye to a member of the family. Now we had to buy a new one. Sixty-four pounds of Alumacraft didn't allow for carrying a small pack with it. Anal retentive time. Months to mentally shop until the Spring scratch and dent sales. And save a few more dollars.
     The canoe had to be light, quiet, wide and deep. Didn't need to be built for speed. We weren't great but could move a canoe along just fine. And keep the open side pointed up. Al, at 22, didn't really know what it was to be tired. I'd been up and down the road. When I got a little tired I knew it wouldn't kill me. Still, crossing Reed weighed on my mind. My mantra was 'wide and deep, wide and deep.' And on sale.
     Finally it was down to the Bell Northwind and Wenonah Spirit II. Both Minnesota made. I liked that. The designers had spent their time on the water up north. The Bell was a little longer. The Wenonah, a little deeper. A local outdoors store had an annual overstock and factory second sale in May. We were there, smokin' cash in pocket, ten minutes before they opened. I spotted the Wenonah immediately. Gruffly mumbled, "Gimme boat now." By opening time it was going on the Jeep. Price was great. The boat perfect. Made out of patches and floor sweepings. A lot of time went into making it from leftover material. Crapsmanship at it's best. The boat didn't have a yoke. But I had ash boards. And the know-it-all, do-it-all confidence that making one couldn't be all that hard. After nine years the Spirit has proven itself many times. Thirteen pounds.
     Clothing was simple. On a one step from the trash rack in Kohls, four pairs of lightweight, zipoff Dungarees called me over. Shorts and pants in one, what will the Chinese think of next? The only items we didn't pare down were socks, t-shirts and underpants. The rest would get dirty stinky. Such is life in the boonies. Be of one smell with the animals. Three pounds.
     Food weight went up. Not much. But fourteen days for two growing boys meant a lot of burned calories. Food, smokes and coffee. Close to sixty pounds. We'd shaved our twenty but still food, clothing, shelter, gear and transport totaled two-sixty. Uf-dah.
     The first driving mile was always the hardest. Never trusted my tying of the canoe. Constantly eyeballed the straps, searching for movement. Inevitably, usually approaching St. Cloud, my fear of it breaking loose and exploding through Jesse Ventura's windshield (the Porsche with the baseball stitched, leather seats) passed. Then it was time to relax until I made an ass of myself at the border crossing.
     Our evening's only hitch came at the intersection of Highways 6 and 60, two hundred-fifty miles north of Winnipeg. There we returned to civilization by passing through a Friday night sobriety check. Real cops, real Mounties. Alas, no Smokie Bear hats, red uniforms or steeds. Didn't take but a glance to let them know we were harmless, goofball Yanks. No weekend joyrides for us in our canoe-topped Jeep. A short but important lost six minutes.
     Super 8 again. Strolled across the lot again. Ale and pizza again. Had we been five minutes earlier, the kitchen would have been open. And a full menu of Canadian delicacies available. We tried a little wheedling. The waitress checked with the kitchen. She returned. Said the chef, Fabian Scarzini, would be more than happy to meet us in the alley where we could discuss our options with his cleaver. Or we could have pizza. The large Hawaiian with green olives was scrumptious.

Learning Curve '01 (Part two)

     Bear seemed almost a return to civilization. We'd had Brunne to ourselves for all but three hours. The lodge boys didn't even know we were there as they putt-putted by out in mid-lake. And believe me, we did nothing to attract their attention. In fact I tried to pretend I was a rock. In contrast, most every day on Bear we had someone trolling by trailing a small blue haze in never-ending ovals down below our campsite perch. Can't say we saw anyone land any fish. But then they were restricted by breakfast and cocktail hour. Were always battling mid-day sun and near calm. Tough walleye conditions. The low sun hours were ours alone.
     The campsite was boffo. Level slab, glide-up landing. Kitchen and tent pad dominated the lake from above the treetops. Made us feel like lords of Manitoba sittin' up in our lakeside aerie. Stupendously fine site. And showed more use than any we'd seen to date. Such is life in the land of the slightly out of the way.
     Best of all we had the fishing pegged from the get-go. A classic situation of ninety-percent of the fish in ten-percent of the lake. Okay, so I'm exaggerating a little. Call it ninety-percent in thirty-percent. A single look at the map told the story. Our campsite was the front door to what I've come to call a lake-within-a-lake. Four hundred acres nearly separated by islands from the rest of the body. If you ever camp on Bear, take the first camp site on the south side. Stand on the hill facing the main body of the lake. The good fishing's to your rear.
     That's the direction we headed on our first evening. Honestly, it looked good on paper but we'd been wrong before. We eventually tried other spots around Bear but nothing came close to what sat behind us. Lots and lots of walleyes. Most around twenty inches. Rock piles and points. Simple enough. Pike everywhere. A few pushing twenty pounds. Sometimes in the cabbage. Sometimes chowing down on walleyes. Big fish love to eat.
     From cast one it was The Allan Show. I caught my share but he hammered 'em. All the big pike. All the big walleyes. It was my obligation to continually remind him as he reeled them in, that it was my expertise at boat control and location choice that made it all possible. Can't say he ever bought that line. Didn't actually say one way or the other. Too busy catching fish I guess.
     His biggest pike was a Master Angler for sure. Well, it would have been if I'd taken the picture. Soon as we got a look at the fish, I began to maneuver, in reverse, toward a likely landing. Me going one way, pike towing the other. You see, I wanted the shot to be a classic. Al on slab, forest behind, on one knee, hat cocked at jaunty angle, white teeth gleaming, pike held horizontal toward camera. Photo framed and someday hanging on office wall. "Yup. My old man made it all possible. Greatest human being that ever tied a bucktail." Never did make the slab. The picture on the wall changed to Allan with empty hands while kneeing on slab, "Yup. My old man screwed up again."
     A few hundred yards behind our site sat a colossal cabbage bed. Was always good for a dozen casts each time we passed. Not a real hot spot but I've got this thing for cabbage. Even the kind that goes with corned beef. So, Al hooked this hammer handle. Not unusual. Until the little bugger quit the fight and made a bee-line for the canoe. Weird. Al cranked as fast as he could, line rooster tailing a spray  of over heated water as it gathered on his reel. 'Bout the time he's back in control, bang! It thumped the bottom of the boat like a Japanese bell log. Then turned tail and stripped out line. Weirder. Now, Al's got a fight on his hands and wondering, what the hell? Finally gets the snake alongside only to find it sideways in the jaws of a forty-incher. When he tried to hoist the pair for a photo, the big girl finally turned loose, no doubt feeling cheated out of a snack. Al released the little pike, who tried to get back in the canoe. Figuring the fatty hadn't felt the hooks, Allan commenced to fan cast. And hooked up again,  this time landed the northern. Quite a change from his first big pike on Simonhouse.xxxxxx
     Answer to the question of the week. An amphipod is a fresh water scud. More or less looks like a shrimp and floats around in a lake's plankton. Seems to be an important part of a trout lake's ecology. Seeing as how Amphipod was a trout lake that fit nicely. In a dull, couldn't think of a more creative name for a lake than a bug that fish eat, kind of way. Again made me miss good old Round Lake back home. Guess I'm a sucker for color.
     We didn't know that at the time we were paddling down to back door it from Bear. Too easy going in the front door from Third Cranberry like everyone else. Oh, we'd had our chances the first two years but it was a low priority. Also, we didn't have trout gear. Not that we were chest wader and match-the-hatch ready this time. Best we could do was little spinners. Not elegant but a proven tactic. Shoot, even us bozos had caught a few 'bows and brookies with them ( I almost sound like I knew what I was doing. But if you've read this far, you know the truth). Truth is I've never caught trout with a fly rod. Spinners, worm and hook and the ever popular beetle-bug and pork rind. Cut me some slack here. At least I didn't use bleach.
     Bushwhack. Here we go again. Been there, not done that. By gum, this time we were gonna give it something close to a good shot. No swamps in the way. Just a mile of forest without a trail. Not like the Copper Lake romp. But our chances solidly better than the snowball in hell. Honestly, I didn't think we'd make it. But we had the time. Give 'er a shot. We'd either find Amphipod or a good excuse on the way.
     A tough landing of brush above a short rock wall. Grumbled about Canadian conspiracy. There being no way to hoist the canoe, it was left in lake and tied off to brush. Knew for a fact rope would break. Worked our way uphill through the thicket, occasionally dropping to our knees. Pissed and moaned about eventually having to drag canoe through such crap. Regained my composure when finally on level. Life again good. In love with whole world. Could see for quarter mile. Occasional deadfall jumble broke up the otherwise open area. It almost looked like it had been logged off. Whistled while we walked. A half mile in we dead ended at a wall of forest with only the most general idea of Amphipod's direction. Checked the compass. Allowed for vague amount of declination. Thankfully the arrow pointed to a spot on the map that said, "Good enough excuse for city boys to pack it in." Followed by an asterisk referring to a note saying simply 'Wieners.' That and the idea of another half mile of zig-zag through a much thicker stretch of woods told me it was time to turn around. Gave me an appreciation of pioneers and those way-back Asians who wandered into North America twenty-thousand years earlier without having the slightest clue where the hell they were going. I felt awash with relief as we walked back. Maybe I didn't like heading into a world without signposts. Maybe I'd cheated death one too many times in Vietnam. Whatever the reason, not getting lost in the Canadian woods appealed to me a lot.
     Allan. This remembrance just doesn't have enough of him in it. And he's there every mile, step and paddle of the way. He's the necessary half. Without Al there'd be no Canada for me. He was the excuse, the spark. Yeah, the idea for all of it was in my head for decades. But it was Al who made it come to life. Who got us heading for Wedge. Look for the mine. Amphipod. Trapper's cabins. To stop once in a while to take a leak in a new place, on a new island. Mostly to put up with my never-ending idiocy. Talk, talk, talk. We talked all the time. Always something to say, even if what was said was better off not being said. He let me read aloud. Even encouraged it. He knew we could do things I knew we couldn't. being in Canada with my son was a gift. Pure and simple. He turned out to be the son I'd like to have been if my old man had lived long enough to do things with me.
     Come the end of our week and a half, his lips were shot. Chapped, windburned, sunburned, cracked all to hell. Lemonade burned to the touch, water burned, it hurt to eat. He was still enjoying his time. Just wasn't having as much fun enjoying it.
     The plan was to leave on our second Wednesday. The weather had been great but it could turn at any moment. Couple of days being windbound and we wouldn't make the wedding. We'd hear about it for sure. And for years after. Mostly, I didn't want to miss it. It was family. Not only important but pleasureful being around both in-laws and out-laws. So it had to be Wednesday.
     We got up real early. Didn't want to rush it. We sure did that well. Putting together and eating breakfast was a challenge. 'Course at the end of a trip you're down to mold and crumbs. Took a while, maybe a while and a half. Al said he'd do dishes and pack the kitchen. I shuffled back to break down and pack up the camping stuff. Beautiful day. Seemed a shame to waste it traveling but.... I pulled the plugs on the air mattresses. Folded a couple of things neatly. Sat and stared. Stuffed most of a sleeping bag into a sack. I was pooped. Sat and stared. Pulled the bag back out and went to talk with Al. He seemed to be having a difficult time deciding which to pack first, the salt or the pepper. The only thing around him that'd moved was his shadow.
     Al put it simply, "The weather will hold, let's fish today and travel tomorrow."
     It seemed so right. Over the next fourteen hours we spent a dozen on the water. Full sun all day. Fish beyond count. Covered close to half the shoreline. We were obsessed. Somewhere around nine p.m., Al took the photo of me with our last walleye. Then for the next two hours we caught dozens more. Hotter and hotter as the sun went down. Close to fish a cast. What a day it had been. Allan's gift to his old man. Only dark drove us from the water.
     Thursday. Another treasure of a day. Time to pack it in for real. And I'd almost forgotten to mention Old Notch, the eagle. The one missing a big wing feather. All he wanted from life was to eat one of the baby loons across the lake from us. His were the only eagle wings I'd ever been close enough to hear. He nearly dropped a load when he all but ran into me early one morning.
     This time leaving was easy. Laughed our way through it. On the water early with Winnipeg and cold beer on our minds. Travel was a pleasure on that calm, sunny day. The miles flew faster and faster as Al's watch slowed to a stop. Again.
     On Friday we were searched as we passed through customs. Don't know what went on or what they were looking for 'cause we were asked to leave the Jeep. My apologies to the drug sniffing dog. Then again, after ten days in the boonies, our stuff probably smelled like a dog's butt.

Learning Curve '01 (Part One)

     A full two weeks of doing exactly what I'd wanted brought on a guilt attack, an egotistic waste of precious time. Been raised a Catholic. Need I say more? But on the other hand, I'd been spoiled and anything less than a full two weeks seemed paltry. Al was fine with two weeks. Even Lois was willing to go along with it. But I was stuck in the middle of me again. Didn't know which shoulder to listen to. Or which one was which. The devil or the angel? Donald Duck syndrome. Fifty-four years old and in the middle of a Disney toon. So the plan was listening half to one and half to the other. More or less half-assed. We'd take two weeks but they wouldn't all be in Canada. But they'd all be up north. Wouldn't be all play. Wouldn't be all work. Wouldn't be just the two of us. Lois was coming to play for part of the time.
     Once again we had a late spring. Got me frettin' about another winter in summer on the Grass River. Lois said that wouldn't happen. Turned out she was right. I think she was blowing smoke and calling it intuition. There's no way I can prove that so I'll give her the benefit of the doubt.
     Here's how it played out: Over the last three or four years I'd putzed together most of a canoe and equipment storage shed up at the cabin. Twelve by twenty-four feet, dirt floored, roofed with steel. Didn't as yet have doors or siding to match the cabin. Then there was the new outhouse. Made 'cause the old one was turning into what was in the hole underneath it. The new one still needed flooring and trim work. Finishing those two projects became the opening bookend of the two weeks. The back end was a family wedding.
     Like I said, Lois was right about the weather. Two weeks of mostly sun and warmth. Nothing to hold us back but ourselves. The three of us left the Cities on an end of May Friday. All the material we needed was up North and waiting. Like a kit ready to be assembled. Construction is most always kit work. Sometimes you start by making the kit. That's what lumber and saws are for. Shed doors and sheathing were to be of cedar. Dog-eared fence pickets were squared up on an earlier trip and ready to go.
     By six p.m. that first evening Al'd started on the sheathing. I finished the outhouse. Both called for simple, repetitive tasks done efficiently. Get a rhythm and go at it. And always know where your fingers are. Do it once, do it right. Canada was calling. Lois had the tougher jobs. Made meals, provided a third hand and did the running to town for the unforeseen. Life seems to be filled with the unforeseen. Most are no big deal so long as no blood is spilled.
     She's a two holer. Steel roof. Cedar sheathed with moon and star cut in the door. The door came from the old outhouse. Too nice to not use. The bench is a formica counter top, cut to fit the store bought seats. The face of the bench is quarter sawn oak from the same stack as the addition floor and walls. Sometimes I forget and reach for the flushing handle. Walls and ceilings were decoupaged by Lois with family memorabilia and posters. Two large, quarter-inch thick plexiglass windows face the woods and let in plenty of light. Prefinished oak flooring lends a touch of civility. The peaks are screened front and back for ventilation. Might not be the finest outhouse in Christendom but it sure be in the running. I take my dirty work seriously. The flooring and trim were completed as dark was making itself to home.
     For Allan it was a dozen hours of measuring, sawing and nailing. With an additional minute here and there thrown in to remove slivers. Near the end of the day on Saturday he was finishing up and I was well into the shed doors. The same cedar picket material was used to make the doors. The two doors were mirror images and formed a diamond patterned frame when hung. Classic look. Such a design has been used for as long as mankind made doors from boards. The plan was in my head and came from years of seeing old, graying farm sheds with unwarped doors. Like most every job since God made the Garden, this one took longer than planned. Any idea of a Sunday afternoon departure flew out the window. Settling for Monday suited me a whole lot better than a pair of jacked-up doors, poorly hung. We'd be looking at them for years to come. Losing a few hours on the water was well worth it.
     A canoe-fishing story sure doesn't usually start with a construction project. But, truth be known, I don't see a whole lot of difference between the two. Both are being and doing kinda things. We were working and laughing as a family. When work's fun it's just another good way of being alive. Canada or not, we were doing things outdoors surrounded by forest, wind and birdsong. Time passed with the sun. Ate when we were hungry. Worked up a sweat. Washed at the pump. Paused every so often to take it all in. Working with your hands in the out of doors is a connection to the past. Come supper on Sunday, we were as done as we could be. All was a pleasure to the eye.
     Monday morning. Six a.m. We drove down our two track driveway through the woods, Lois in the lead. A quarter mile of gravel led us to the highway. Lois turned south. Allan and I, north. Couldn't take my eye off the rear view mirror as Lois moved into the past. Can't forget our separations during the Vietnam years. They tore me apart each time. That war sure screwed with my mind. This was nothing near that level. But I'll never forget those earlier days. Impossible to forget. A half minute later me and Al were around the first bend and on our way to Canada once again.
     Leaving from the cabin seemed a whole new drill. Sure doesn't take much to perk my interest do it? The miles flew by. Our early start didn't hurt either. And all of it in daylight. Coming from a half day of work as the first three trips had made it feel like a marathon. Bird free this time. Coming into The Pas, lo and behold, we found a brand spankin' new Super 8 motel on the right. Not exactly the Waldorf but what the hell. Though it wasn't finished, it was open and had a vacancy. Mmm. Fresh latex paint and pure olefin carpeting. Smelled just like the good ol' U. S. of A. Asked the man at the desk about a good place to eat. Scratched his head and said, "Beats me. I just got here myself." So we did the easy thing. Walked across the parking lot to a bar and grill. Pizza with Kokanee lager on tap. New beer to me but a big deal here in Canada. Michael J. Fox himself drinks it when out west. Can't go wrong with a recommendation like that. Sure carried a wallop of flavor.
     This year's plan was simple as pie and would take all ten of our days. Finish off last year's plan. Bear-Brunne here we come. The map said there was a lot going on over there besides the two main lakes. Copper, B.C., Amphipod - whatever an amphipod might be, and a fistful of hundred acre lakes. All had names, none had any marked portages. But none were all that far apart. Unless you'd call B.C. Lake with three small lakes and four unmarked portages in the way, a long haul. Copper looked like a definite. Amphipod, a trout lake, was a maybe. We'd do what we could. Still the main ideas were big pike and walleyes.
  

                                         Emil

     Gotta cut in and give the low down on the Minnesota mind. Up here in the Northland we run on guilt. Keeps the furrows straight and the politicians a little less crooked. Markie couldn't stop the bad weather of '00 from cloudin' up the blue skies of '01. He kept smellin' a trap. Us Minnesotans figure life balances out in the long run. Sometimes in the short. You just don't know when the hammer's gonna fall. Topping that off, we figure the balance point to hover around mildly miserable. Think about where we live and you'll see what I'm drivin' at.
     So as he's paddling down the Cranberries, under blue skies and with a tailwind no less, he's figuring the piper is waiting somewhere up ahead to collect his nickel. Maybe bear attack. Or at the very least, a hundred year old black spruce falling on a two year old tent with a fifty-four year old foreigner inside. He'd squirt out both ends like a tube of toothpaste smacked with a ball peen hammer. Markie'll tell you for certain that even when he's having a good time, he's doin' his darnedest to temper the fun with a crazy fear of the improbable. Improbable, not impossible 'cause, if it's bad enough it ain't impossible. Can't say's I find anything wrong with that line of thinkin'.


     Blue sky, sunshine, tail wind all the way. So easy we even took an unscheduled break. to help erode a steep sided island. Sometimes Al has the darnedest time getting from A to B. He got us to pull into that island just has to check things out. I shouldn't complain. Wasn't like we were checking out the new Play Station. But next thing you know, he'll be wanting to smell the roses and find the meaning of life at the same time. Not a good sign. Dear Lord, the extra stop put us ten minutes behind schedule. Fire up your German blood boy. Guess I wasn't as yet out of work mode.
     The portage was easy work on this perfect day. Not a biting bug in the air. And it was an equal  pleasure paddling up the connecting stream and into Bear. No galloping horses this time. How dull. Soon as we were out on the lake we hung a left. New water. Yes, it was a thrill. Thanks for asking. Maybe thousands had been there before but it was new to us. Like finding a treasure chest and not knowing what was inside. On the map it looked so big. On the water, the thicket of islands to our south shrank the lake down to the downright personal. Mid lake we passed what looked to be a fine campsite. But we had other places to go. Base camp on Brunne was at least a half dozen miles ahead. No sites were shown on the map, so for the first time we'd be intentionally winging it. How daring. Going rogue in a foreign land. Sarah Palin would have been proud of us. If only we'd had the vision to arrive by helicopter. Coulda been spearing our jumbo pike from the air like real Americans. Instead, we paddled on. Zig-zagging west then north 'cause there was too much to see while searching for the next portage.
     Portage? Looked like we could have driven the Jeep over it. Way high and dry for the sixty rods to Brunne. Question of the day: What craps like a dog, eats things with hair or fur and lives way up here? I was thinking wolf but willing to scale down to coyote. Nah, wolf seems so much manlier so I'll go with that.
     We also came upon our first fifty-five gallon woods barrel. Maybe for bear baiting? Give us a break, we're ignorant city boys. What do we know about such things? So long as we weren't the bear bait, ours was a happy life. Talked this over with a friend. A lady friend no less. She suggested the best stuff to put in such a barrel was restaurant grease. All those rotting meat smells just had to be primo attractants. The beauty of the grease came into play when you plugged the beast just as it was leaning in to chow down. Carcass falls in grease. Barrel is sealed, flash frozen, then the bear can be deep fat fried at your convenience. So sweet. Hats off to Linda Mayne for the tip of the week!
     At the end of the portage sat the legal minimum of three aluminum boats. Thank God. Now I knew we were still in Canada. What would a wilderness be without locks, chains and discarded beer cans? A person could get bummed enough to head back to the BWCA with all it's rules and regulations. Or head up to the sub-arctic, spend a fortune and play explorer for a week or two. Man's problem with wilderness areas is having to drag himself along when heading into the boonies. Seems all of us, good intentioned or not, are good at screwing things up. Ah, but I piss and moan too much. We were here for da fishin'. And a little quiet time together. Hopefully we could do that without messin' up too much.
     We were there. On Brunne. No campsites posted. No problem. A dozen miles of shoreline and a couple of fistfuls of islands should offer a bounty of landing spots. First off, a half-mile in, we bypassed the biggest island on the lake. Didn't even look at it and almost sneered as we passed. Seventeen miles of water and two portages didn't seem buffer enough to me I guess. Don't know what I was afraid of. Maybe the sound of rush hour traffic back in Cranberry Portage. Even by motor boat we were over two hours from the Government Dock. How many lodge sports would be up for a four to five hour round trip for a couple of hours of trolling? Shoulda stopped and checked it out. Ten years later and I'm still kicking myself in the butt over it. A violation of rule number one: Don't do anything stupid.
     We hung a right on the five mile long lake 'cause that's where the islands were. And began a weave among them looking for a landing. Can't camp unless you can get out of the boat. Checked out every likely spot. Zip. Then weaved our way back. Zip. Who the heck made these islands? Didn't they know we'd need an easy landing someday? We'd finally sunk into the unforgivable of heading back toward the big island. Wussing out again. But then, tah-dah! Halfway back we came upon what looked like a shore lunch spot sitting on a small peninsula. The landing sucked but not so much we couldn't get out of the canoe. Toe and hand-hold time. Followed by a painter rope job to zig-zag the canoe into a brush opening and a hoist up. Took a few years but we were getting competent at doing marginal backwoods stuff.
     The site was just big enough and had a level, mossy tent pad. Looked like it'd never been used. Enough rocks to build a fire stand for our grill on the rock slab. Great view across a quarter mile bay. And just behind us an acre or two of drop zones for the inevitable.
     The wilderness camping books don't give enough space to both ends of digestion. Lord almighty! If you're gonna eat, you're gonna excrete. Simple fact. And when the woods are filled with flying things that want your blood, it's not all that easy a job. No doubt about it, crappin' in the woods is an outdoorsman's skill. For sure. Gives a new meaning to being a tree hugger. By the way, and I'm not saying this happened to me, if you're thinkin' of burning your toilet paper so as to be a no trace camper, remember: There's not much dirt in the far north. Mostly duff and rock. Seeing as how digging a hole in rock is a challenge, you'll most likely bury your leavings in duff. And duff burns. So bury it deep or pack it out. Ickey! 'Course you could put it in the cooking fire. Can't say that would perk up the flavor of fresh caught walleye but you never know.
     I'd sure like to write about all the wonderful fishing action on Brunne. Seeing as how we were a fair ways in from the road you'd have thought it would have been non-stop. But it wasn't. Oh, it was great by Minnesota standards. Just not so for Manitoba. We'd find pockets of game fish most everywhere on our islanded end of the lake. Mostly walleye. What were we doing wrong? We were there to sling spinners for pike. Catching the most curious of the walleyes was not our bag. Should have done like the Romans and gone to jigs and power grubs. But didn't think of that as real fishing I 'spose. Also we hadn't as yet figured out fishing spinners like jigs. Most gopher lovers from south of the border'd have no problems with a few dozen pickerel a day. But we were looking for boat draggers, not shore lunch.
     For sure the pike were around. Though not much for size. Just a bunch of skinny males doing their best to be annoying. I figured it had to do with spawning and the ladies acting coy. Seems like an excuse and it is. When you're on the water nine degrees north of home and no one to ask about such things as ice out, spawning and the alcohol content of beer, it's all a crap shoot. Figured the big mamas we were looking for were taking a break somewhere. Gettin' spruced up mid-lake after a tough time squirting out all those eggs. We did find a fifteen pounder off a rock pile. When I hoisted her for a portrait, she nearly rolled the canoe. Feisty lady. Gives a person pause when the boat rocks like that. 'Specially when you're a half mile out from shore. Remember rule number one.
     By the way, we were back in the Alumacraft. It was noisy and clunky looking but seemed to handle better. At least for us. Besides, she was an old friend. Still is. Lightly loaded, the Camper was kick-ass. For a few years it was our go-to fishing boat at the cabin. Then I sold it. But that's next year's story. To everything there is.... Another truth from Ecclesiastes. Nothing in our universe is a perfect anything.
     Can't complain about our time on Brunne for at least four reasons. Allan caught his one and only sucker. A much maligned fish. People don't much like to eat them but go ask a pike if they're tasty or not. Possibly it's their weak jaw line and turned down mouth. Maybe if they grew a beard like Hemmingway. The one Al caught was mostly black with a slightly rosy-tinted, pale yellow belly. Actually a good looking sucker. That is if you're into color.
     Caribou. In Minnesota we have a chain of coffee shops by that name. Northwest Manitoban's weren't as much into sippin' java while surfing the web on their I-pads as us geeky types down in Minnesota so they had to settle for the actual, real animal on the hoof rather than a logo. We saw our first pair on a wooded hillside near the Copper Lake portage. No doubt they saw us first. And probably by a long shot. Seeing as how we were an exotic species from a foreign country, me and Al were no doubt fascinating as all get out. A couple more to check off on their homo sapiens lifetime list. Soon as we saw them they turned white butt and disappeared. Saw another a couple of days later, also on the north shore.
     Gold mine. The map showed an abandoned mine a short stretch to the northwest of the lake. Of course it might not have been a gold mine but, given the choice, that was mine (Is that confusing or is it just me?). I figured there was little chance we'd find precious metal. However, there might be a slag heap in which to find a sparkly crystal or bit of pyrite. Whatever we might find would make for a good story and not be much of a burden to hump out.
     Off the wet rubbled landing we quickly came upon what looked like a grassed over two track. Wide enough to drive a truck over. I mean that. Most everything about it said truck, even the signage and occasional semaphore. Maybe a winter road? If so, where did it go? And what for? The ruts through the low spots were water filled. Finally it was uphill to the site. A feeling of being very much alone walked in with us. No doubt about it. I said hi and asked if the Solitude surrounding us minded that I was doing my best to ignore it. Seems like those feelings like to hang out twenty water, woods and crow miles from the nearest pair of trousers. Just like us, they get lonely and their dearest wish is for somebody to come along and keep them company. And maybe drag those unsuspecting visitors down into an unknown plaid Hades for all eternity.
     We found the mine area. Maybe even the mine. Or something that looked like a huge gopher hole filled with rocks. Not a slag heap in sight. The rocks in the hole were chunks of granite. Crap! No crystals for me. We wandered off in search of other treasure, any other treasure. A hundred yards away stood - well, maybe fifty years ago they stood - a pair of cabins. The piles of broken bottles and rusted cans led us to think maybe people once lived in them and survived on an unhealthy, canned diet. When the pile of trash got too big they left.
     The inside of the buildings was tetanus shot country. We did find two treasures. An empty can of Spork appealed to our Minnesota, Spam to the bone, selves. Al had to have a photo. Should have been an arm's length shot of the three of us. Captioned, 'Who be the ugly twins with that fine can of Spork?' The other was a small, unbroken bottle which we smuggled across the border. Just like in the days of Prohibition. Only those bottles were full. My old man tried to smuggle a few bottles of liquor across the border on the way home from his honeymoon.  My bottle made it. His didn't.
     We walked the site. Had a fine time passing through the heady and fragrant blend of sunlit pine and spruce. Me and that piney scent have a love-hate relationship. I want to like it. Should like it, but don't. Lord knows I've tried. Probably goes back so far in my past I have no memory of the experience. A lot of a person's attitudes seem to be based on things that happened when they were months old. A person gets bent one way for a darned good reason. But at age fifty-four, I no longer have a clue what that reason was. Can't say this side trip in the woods was a thrill. But should I ever find myself on Brunne again, I'd give it another go.
     Couple of years before, the Simonhouse Ranger had referred to this area as the Copper Lake chain. I thought he had it ass backwards. Copper's no more than three hundred acres. Bear and Brunne, both solidly over a thousand. In my mind that seemed a cart before the horse thing unless the fishing on Copper was world class. First thing on the second morning we paddled straight across toward Copper. No portage was marked on the map. Figuring most everyone was as lazy as us, we headed for the narrowest dry point between the two.  Made me feel like a regular trail blazer when it turned out we were right. Since it was no more than a long city block up and over we threw all the gear in the canoe and each grabbed an end. After much discussion concerning the possibility of levitation, we settled on the necessity of taking opposite ends. One boat sat on Copper's shore. Old and rotting. Good sign. Wasn't even chained up. There's a photo of me looking near as passed my prime as the boat, but trying mightily to affect an air of wisdom.
     Turned out we had a decent morning's walleye fishing. Maybe even pretty good. But hole-moley, look where we were. Should have been 'jumpin' in the boat' great. We were well aware of our walleye limitations. But those fish had probably never seen homemade spinners. Should have been hammering the lures just to see how they tasted. Plus, no fishing boats at the portage. That we should stink more than we thought was perplexing.
     However, there was more to the story. At the Government Dock on the way out we talked with a man who'd fished Copper a number of times in years past. Said his first couple of times the lake was the closest he'd found to virgin water. Then sometime in the mid-nineties it just stopped. Didn't have a clue as to why. I gave it some thought. Put two and two together and figured he wasn't the only one to seek out Copper. Three hundred nearly sterile acres could be easily overfished. Same old story.
     Two years later we learned the truth. Back in the gold rush days a railroad was built across what eventually became the north side of Grass River Park. When the park was established, the rail was torn out. Somehow or other the abandoned grade was turned into a crushed gravel road. A local could now hop into the F-150 and tow his boat to the north end of Copper Lake. Bye-bye near virginity. Guess we were too late. Some wilderness, eh. Not much to do but laugh about it. Still it was a pretty little lake. Even searched it for a campsite. Should have brought a jackhammer, dynamite and a bobcat. Or maybe gone up Copper's north arm and camped out on the road.
     Brunne gave us our finest evening of Canadian fishing. Wasn't so much the amount of fish. Though the walleyes had no problem sacrificing themselves for our sins. It was the black, glassed out water, setting sun and a pair of loons going looney that made our dusk memorable. Excuse me but I'm compelled to write this: the lake's surface was as obsidian. There. I've done it and feel so much better. For an hour we lived in a cliche. Sun under-lighting spruce and pine. Trees reversed on water. Mellow, fine, just right. Jaw hanging, drool flowing. All the while, the loons, a quarter mile away, went nuts. Running on the water and off at the mouth. For most of an hour. It that's their idea of a mating ritual, I'd pay good money to watch loon sex.
     Not much more to say about Brunne. One cool, cloudy day and four of sun. Then off to Bear. Took almost as long to break camp as to travel. Yeah, I know, some voyageurs we were. Here's my excuse. I don't fully buy into that 'life is a journey' drivel. Never liked 'you are what you eat' either. Saw the latter as 'you ain't what you excrete'. Every positive statement has it's corresponding negative. It's a balance, pure and simple. As for the 'journey', I'm more into the being there. Taking the time to be somewhere has more appeal. Get the feel of a location. Know the smells. Get a little feeling of being at home there. More often than not we base camped. Spent a lot of time putzing around. Also spent at least six hours canoeing on the water each day, mostly fishing. Sometimes just checking things out. Takes a while to find a few treasures on a lake. If you get one idea out of this jumble of words, don't always pass on through. Stop for a while. Throw a few spinners.

Endings

     Damn I hated it when each trip was over. Don't get me wrong. Cleaning, airing and storing the gear had to be done. As much a part of the experience as pitchin' spinners. The putziness of the put away made the taking out in the coming spring surprise free. But it's what goes on in my head that does me in. A long awaited adventure over. Finito. Like a little death. Now a whole year 'til the next trip. Don't know whether to cry or scream. But all that gets sucked up. Nothing's gonna make it any better. Keep cleaning the gear. Been through that drill too many times in the past. It's a learned skill. Not one you want to learn. What gets you through is realizing this ain't the end of the world. Knowing there will be a next year helps a lot. In a couple of weeks I'll start counting down the days. Focusing on the long drive, time with Al and back on the water for a week or two. Maybe someplace new. Almost too strong a brew to get a handle on.
     Somewhere down the road there won't be a next year. That's just the way life is. Doesn't make the passing any easier. No point in dwelling on that. So I don't. Knowing that day is there is enough.
     One saving grace. Allan has a son. He'll be 48 when Matthew graduates from High School. Somewhere, somehow, they'll find their own version of Canada. Makes me smile.

Learning Curve '00 (Part Two)

     Yes, the rain did end. Didn't put out more than an inch or two in the forty-five minutes. "That the best you can do? I was ready to sit on this stump for all thirteen days. Candy ass rain." When we made the island, we hit it running. So far the weather forecast had been on the money. Maybe they knew what they were talking about after all. For the first hour it was a game of priorities. Tent up and tied off in all directions. Packs stowed.
     Confession time. We never hung our packs. In my mind the black bears in our neck of the woods weren't hip to untying properly hung packs. Heck, we could barely figure them out ourselves. That we didn't have a tree with an elongated branch anywhere near the island might have been the real reason for no hanging. But I prefer to think our bears simply didn't recognize the aroma of a Snickers Bar as food. Being natural born organic animals from the get-go they probably don't even know the treats available in a garbage can. My real concern was moisture. Even though all packs were double-bagged on the inside, we envelope folded them in a tarp when in camp to keep them dry.
     Inside the tent I laid out a slightly over-sized, plastic tarp like a second bathtub floor. Tents leak even when they're high quality. The tarp's a little insurance in case of a downpour. Bags rolled out, air mattresses inflated, Coleman fired up, food on. No rain. We were up and ready. Nail that on the wall. When I say it felt like we were home, that's exactly what I felt. And the skies had cleared. To be sure it was still cold. Long johns, stocking caps and jackets cold. Considering what we'd already been through, a little cold was no big deal.
     In my mind's eye sittin' here in 2011, what we didn't know about back then, was what was sittin' on the other side of the pole. Something was going on over there weatherwise and firing storms at Canada like ping-pong balls from a 1950's toy bazooka. Soon as one piece of misery would clear off another would come rumbling along. Wind, rain and cold. Enough wind to keep us off the water for about four days. Enough rain to make us thankful for the tent. In the bags at night we wore stocking caps, long johns, socks and jackets. Oh yeah, almost forgot. It snowed. On the coldest days we topped off our usual three layers with rain gear and life jackets. Didn't much need the Weather Channel to tell us it never topped sixty degrees. In spite of all that, we had a humdinger of a good time. What can I say?
     Nights weren't a party for my ribs. Every hour or so they'd wake me up to shift positions. Moving involved a slow, full elbow prop. Then a grunting reposition. But it felt sooo good falling back asleep. Oddly enough, paddling and fishing were no problem. Ribs must know what makes for a good time and don't want to screw it up. By the fourth night the pain was almost gone. Thoughts of Bear and Brunne returned to the picture.
     Our latrine was in the wooded end of the island. Only place with any dirt and duff. After our stay it also had the best fertilized jackpines in the park. On day five I headed into the woods armed with trowel and TP. By choice and fear of inadvertently filling my drawers, I always tree-hugged and rear projected from a semi-squat. No need to visualize that. Going into the squat, I felt and heard two distinct rib pops. Like getting kicked in the back. Hurt so bad I started laughing. Laughed so hard I nearly lost my grip. Fear of losing my grip got me laughing even more. I was on a never-ending, descending, bare-assed spiral into pain and potential rolling in my own filth. Got a grip on myself finally. Not easy to do. Since I was already down, I finished my business. Amazingly, when I came out, Allan claimed he never heard my ribs crack. Could have sworn I heard them echo down the lake. No big deal. Now at least the real healing could begin. And, big and, it still didn't hurt to paddle or fish.

The Long...

and the Short of It

     The fishing. Ahh, the fishing. Now that was another story. As good as we'd hoped. A wealth of walleyes. A plethora of pike. A tidy number of them in the teens. A few over forty inches. Two fish stand out. One at each end of the spectrum. The first was a hands down, one and only, never to be repeated, stuff of legends. You tell me what the odds are for impaling a shiner minnow cleanly through the head with a number five spinner. Aggressive little bugger. The photo shows Allan smugly posing with his trophy.
     Second fish was also Al's. Bad weather and lazy afternoons in camp had us doing plenty of shore fishing. Our little channel saw a lot of passing action. You'd think that most every campsite six degrees north of the border, especially the remote ones, would have good fishing. Not so. Our site on Wedge was the best of a couple of dozen we eventually occupied over the years. Once my ribs snapped, Wedge was the end of the road for us. No Brunne or Bear for us.
     Thank God for the passing parade off shore. Catching a forty incher while wind bound was a big deal for me. Figured it would be the largest either of us saw. And it was, for a couple of days. Came to pass one afternoon, Al was pitching his usual red and white. Me, I was putzing. Maybe trying to square the circle or something equally useful. So Al starts yelling out, "Fish on! Fish on! Bigger than a dog big!" Heard that before. What's with the 'bigger than a dog?' What kind of dog? Decided to settle that dog business once and for all. One look told me mid-sized pooch. Springer spaniel size. Damn big pike. Ran for the pliers, needle nose and camera. Got a good shot of the two of them. Why I took only one is a mystery. Forty-six and a half inches. Call it twenty-eight pounds. Nice shore pike? More like, best of a lifetime.
     Half inches are a big deal with pike that size. Its not like we were being picky or stretching the truth as far as possible. In the old days it was pounds and ounces. To get an accurate weight you had to kill the fish. Dead fish aren't happy fish. Nowadays we're kinder and gentler souls. Hook 'em through the mouth, fight them 'til they're near death, jam a spreader in their mouth, pop it through the beak, rip the hook out with a pair of pliers, take a picture, measure and turn 'em loose with a pat on the butt and a 'have a nice day.' That half inch over the forty-six inches was worth about a pound. You gotta count it.
  

Esox Luscius - Water Wolf - A perfect Name

                     
     I've given some thought to why I like pike fishing. Maybe 'cause a northern was the first gamefish I caught. Maybe it's simply the name and how it gets me thinking of the steep, rock slab and pine lined lakes of the Canadian shield. More likely it's the way a pike eagerly snatches anything that moves and that some of them get big. Seriously, catching pike ain't what you'd call a skill. They're in nearly every fish holding lake in Minnesota. And if you catch enough of them you'll eventually tie into what Allan calls a fatty. More persistence than skill I guess.
     So, why Canada for pike? I've said it before. There's more of them, they're not all that sharp and there's more big ones. Simply put, my kind of fish.

     One of my goals I've ragged on about to most anyone within shouting distance is to someday fish an unnamed lake. Not just some old slough but one that held some hidden treasures. Like maybe jumbo walleyes as dumb and eager as pike. If I could have found one in Minnesota, maybe we'd have never gone to Canada. But down there in the southland, every mud hole has a name. A fair number are even called Mud and some have two names in case one wasn't enough. Guess that's to make up for all the Round, Long, Fish and Island Lakes.
     Near to Wedge sat a couple of no-namers. The best looking had a few islands and was around three hundred acres. No streams or portages going in or out. Beyond intriguing. Might have sat on its own since the glaciers melted off. Like an itty-bitty Australia with marsupial muskies. Virgin water. Lordy, lordy, the possibilities were endless. One minor problem. Between it and Wedge stretched a mile and a quarter of swamp and untraveled forest. Land of trolls, gnomes and eternally lost souls. Doubted I had it in me to set off into that much of an unknown.
     The other seemed a real possibility. According to the map she wasn't as fancy, around a hundred acres banana shaped acres and nary an island. Oh yeah, another swamp stood in the way. Seems the Canucks go out of their way to keep unnamed lakes unknown. Good news was the less than a half mile slog in the crossing. Throw in some high ground and just maybe....
     Obviously I wouldn't bring this up if we didn't give 'er a go. On our scoping of the shore we were distracted by a chunk of a pike, solidly in the teens. Sometimes you just gotta do what you gotta do. Turned out the map was too right. Low swampy, unlandable shore and a couple of cattail bays. We were about to bag it when off in the woods I spotted an old blaze on a spruce. Never was a Boy Scout but I knew what a blaze was and what it meant.
     Really, there were no drugs involved. Outside of caffeine and nicotine, we had nothing. Maybe it was all the clean air. Too much oxygen, chlorophyl and all that healthy stuff. Don't really know for sure what caused my brain to become befuddled. That the blaze I spotted and all the others following it, led us down a faint trail going in the wrong direction, never entered my mind. All I could see was an 'ancient path leading to near virginal waters.' Buckskin and wool shirts made this trail long before gortex. Piss on gortex. We were walkin' on history. All the blazes were nearly grown over. Moss ankle deep. Deadfall here and there.
     Had to pause now and then to make out the path. High ground all the way. Too good to be true. This was a fairy tail woods for sure. Thumper and Bambi kinda forest. Maybe sixty rods in we could make out an opening in the trees that could only mean a lake. The time between my thought of 'we're gonna make it' and Allan's realization the water we could see was just another bay on Wedge, could have been measured in nanoseconds. Ecstasy is truly a fleeting thing. We looked at each other and laughed. Same laugh. Different reasons. Seems there's a fine line between embarrassment and ridicule. I'd been wrong many times before. And am looking forward to many more screwups in my future. I've learned to take disappointment well, but not perfectly. Crap!
     Over our remaining days my ribs never got a whole lot better. When the cold would set in at camp I'd get the shivers. The shivers would make the ribs hurt more and bend me over. I'd have to head into the tent, crawl in the bag and warm up. Mostly an inconvenience. Canoeing and throwing spinners would keep me warm. Gotta love that.
     Mister Sunshine paid us a visit on our second Tuesday. The air remained cold and damp but the brightness was uplifting. A few days earlier the small side of Wedge had shown itself to be a big pike hotbed. That is if you consider four in the teens over two hours to be a hotbed. We hit the water after an early supper with the idea of an action-packed five hours. Four hours of mediocrity changed our tune. Figuring to end the evening at the Rainbow Reeds, we headed back toward camp. Hope springs eternal.
     Everything about the evening was good except the effect of the cold and damp on my ribs. Paddling wasn't the problem. Getting out of the canoe at camp to take a leak was. Allan had to lend me a hoisting hand. The leak part I handled alone. While draining I gave the situation some thought. Should anything go wrong on the water, I was a danger. Al was willing to agree with me and also considerate enough to hang around camp with me for the rest of the evening. Had I known that was the end of our canoe fishing for the trip, I'd have taken a couple of ibuprofen and sucked it up. But I didn't know that. It was Tuesday and our planned exit wasn't till Friday. You never know for sure if any decision is the right one. Or the wrong one for that matter. We're all pea brains in the Grand Scheme (whatever that is). Right or wrong, we remained in camp.
     Wednesday was more heavy rain, wind and cold. In and out of the tent all day. Ran out of smokes. You wouldn't think a dozen days would lead to any form of addiction but it sure did. We weren't happy campers. Could have been worse. We had reading material, food and a dry tent. Rained all night. We were beginning to mold. The hundred percent humidity was permeating everything. Constant raindrops on the tent were our wake up call on Thursday. In and out of the tent in the following hours to check on the treetop high clouds.
     A week earlier Al's watch had stopped during the night. Groovy. For sure we definitely weren't into time anymore. Knowing the sun was on the treetops at 10:50pm gave us a ball park reset. On Wednesday his watch stopped again. This time it was reset by a wild guess as to when it was about dark enough under a total overcast to call it sunset. So when I say the rain slowed to a mist around noon on Thursday, that's purely a guess. Figuring the almost lull was as close to a now or never moment as we were going to see, we broke camp. Everything was soaked. Didn't matter. We stuffed it in, burned off our paper and packed out the plastic. Time to go.
     Again, paddling was no problem. A little stiffness, no more than a nuisance. Al had to load me on the portage. And carry all but two packs. I could have felt like a slug but that never entered my head. We were still sharing the load exactly as we'd been doing since our first Boundary Waters trip. The balance point had been moving Allan's direction most every year since then. If we kept doing this wilderness thing long enough, someday he'd be carrying everything, including me and my wheelchair. Don't see me lasting that long but figure I have a few years left.
     The mist came and went as we bucked a light breeze down the Cranberries. By First Cranberry there was nothing left but dying rollers. Only one way to do 'er. Right down the middle, straight toward the radio tower. Pulling into shore it seemed way too dark. Heck, Allan's watch said it was only six o'clock. The Jeep's clock, on the other hand, said it was 8:15. Guess that says a lot about telling time by the sun when you can't see the sun.
    Good old Al. Like I said, we'd run out of smokes. Not life or death but I sure had a hankerin' for some kind of nicotine-like reward once on shore. Seems he'd had some kind of premonition when he'd parked the Jeep thirteen days earlier that we'd return to the access run down, broken boned and buttless. Couldn't do much about the first two. As to the third, he'd squirreled away a couple of Players in the glove box. Man of faith in action. Umm-umm. Two hundred, ninety-seven poisons in each drag. Heaven on earth (is that too heavy?).
     So it's sneaking up on nine when we pulled out of Cranberry Portage at our usual Speed of Light approaching 25 mph. Sure seems fast after two weeks at less than 5 mph.
     Thursday night. Ten o'clock. Wescana Inn. Learned that evening a new paper mill was being built just outside of town. A big deal for The Pas. Not so good for us. Seems most every hammer owner for two hundred miles was in on the deal. And most every man jack of them needed a room in town. The Pas was booked solid every Sunday to Friday. The lady at the desk was a sport. Even though she knew it was a waste of time, she called around. Nada. My brain immediately thought Winnipeg but I quickly slapped that notion down. The desk clerk's best guess for a room was Swan River. Like we had a clue where that was. She said south. The map book said a hundred ninety-five miles. Another short road trip adventure. A full tank, a fresh pack of Players, fast food, coffee, 10:45 and we were off. Black night on a backroad in the Land of Backroads.
     Thirty thousand miles with a canoe on top. Always going somewhere or coming back from somewhere fun and exciting. Cozied into our own little world as the big world rolls by outside the windshield. The first miles always have me looking at the nose of the canoe up front. Checking for movement. Soon I forget it's there. The rack is homemade. Screwed, glued, dadoed, clamped and strapped. Years of trial and error but no lost boats though the windshield of a BMW. So far. Me, my son and the canoe.
     Middle of the night. Swan River in the dark. In no mood to be choosy so we turned into the first motel we saw with a vacancy sign. Didn't look a whole lot different than the Leering Indigenous Person Inn of two years prior. But this time we were in don't-give-a-rat's-ass mode. Looking for warm water and two beds. Nothing more. Any bed bugs would have to take their chances.

                                 Emil Butts In

     The clerk up front must have been the only sober person in town still awake. Kept himself that way by watching Lex Barker action movies from the '50s with Canadian subtitles. As in, "De only good croc is a dead croc, eh." Seems he was also in the mood for fresh ears to bend. And was more than willing to share the full story, in terse detail, of last year's elk hunt. I flipped him two bits and he was off and running. Seems it was one of those serendipity things. The sun rose on elk opener to find a half gross of armed to the teeth hunters loading their trucks and just itching to kill something. At the same time, on the west side of town, a herd of elk wandered in to check out prices on the new Suburu Outback. They'd heard good things about its fuel economy and reliability. The four wheel drive would also ease the trek back into the swamp to save their hides during the upcoming hunting season. Seems elk didn't know dates from a hole in the ground. In truth, they mostly liked the exotic sound of the name Outback. Thought kangaroos were hot or something.
     Anyhow, no sooner did they hit the car dealership then the security guard picked up the phone. Armed hunters met bargain hunter elk about 6:30. 6:33 the guttin', hangin' and moppin' up started. Short and sweet. The man at the desk nodded toward the floor to ceiling mount on the wall behind him.


     The mattresses had seen better days in better decades but the sheets were clean. The room warm and dry. Shower was hot and steamy. Once under the covers I fully relaxed for the first time since we'd put in at the Government dock thirteen days earlier. It'd been a day of days. A trip of trips.
     On the way out of Swan River we stopped at a McDonalds for breakfast. The patrons looked at us like we were a couple of homeless guys who'd scored enough spare change for an Egg McMuffin and small coffee. One blue haired lady screamed in terror. I'd seen my scruffy bearded self in the mirror that morning and couldn't blame her.