Learning Curve '03 - Burntwood Lake

     Morning paddling in the ever widening File 'til it turned into Burntwood Lake. Big water. Biggest we'd ever or will ever canoe. A sprawling reservoir forty miles long. Nothing but points, islands and bays. Hundreds of miles of shoreline. The question was where to go? Four days left, we couldn't fish it all. Hah, that's funny. Couldn't fish it all if we had the entire summer. Even under the current slow conditions there had to be a bunch of hot spots. Might as well close our eyes, spin the map and pin the tail on a campsite. Stuck in a rut, we went with Larry Gogal's advice and looked for an entering stream. A big entering stream in the hope that water might actually be in it. About five miles west of our entry sat one fitting the bill. Lacking a better idea we headed that way.
     The stream and area in general looked good as we approached. Three minutes away we found our best campsite of the trip. Smooth, mud greased landing next to a huge, wide open rock sitting six feet above the water. Some grass on the rock and a single jackpine. Should a thunder storm come pay a visit, I'd no doubt get a free fusing of all my old, cracked silver fillings. Save a fortune in dental bills.

     By rock, I mean ROCK, big flat rock, thirty yards wide and eighty yards long. Hooked to the earth's core, ain't goin' nowhere for a long time, rock. Great view across five miles of lake. Just enough sand and soil to prevent slippage. Chairs out. Coffee on. Book open. Feet up. Oops, sorry. Got carried away. Forgot where we were. Make that, quick lunch, throw gear in boat and give 'er a go.
     The unspoken plan was most always to sneak up on good looking water. Ease ourselves in. Don't let it know you're coming. Kind of like Winnie the Pooh pretending he's a cloud, humming a cloud song so as not to spook the bees. Whoa, that sure ain't very macho. Pretend I didn't write that please. By fishing the obvious crap first, it made the good water seem all that much better.
     Turned out the good water was just that. At least for that first day and evening. All were in the perch family. Walleyes, another coupla jumbo perch and whodathunkit?, sauger. Never caught one before. Never seen one before. Neither had Allan. Made us wonder what the Canucks called one. Came up blank when I checked the American-Canadian dictionary. Closest I could come up with was sogger, Canuck for a donut dunker.  At first we peered at it like some post-ice age mutant strain of pickerel. A lot like our sighting of the sandhill cranes. Knew they had to be something 'cause they were there. Also figured they must have names. The cranes were identified by a birding book. And the saugers, well, they looked like little, brown walleyes just like I'd heard they did.

     Woke up the next morning to white. White everywhere from the end of my nose to the far side of the universe. There'd been a slow dripping on the tent from early morning on. Wrote it down as never-ending drizzle. Finally, me and my bladder said it was time to get up. Unzipped the tent fly and immediately thought, 'Huh?' Took a moment for my brain to sort through all the possibilities before my brain fog cleared and the word fog arrived. Had to wake Allan to share my wonderment. But didn't want to spill the beans and spoil his thrill. Took a bit of prodding to get past his cursing and grumbling. Finally he stumbled out to say, "You woke me for that?" Another example of youth being wasted on youth.
     The second evening's fishing was, depending how you want to look at it, the best of a lifetime. Sixteen inch walleyes and fourteen inch saugers by the score. Hours of fun. Except for Allan's half hour rant. On and on he went, trying his best to sound like the Lucky Charms leprechaun and blithering endlessly how he had the luck of the Irish. So he was outfishing me. But not by much. I'd catch six in a row, he'd pull in eight. I'd do ten, he'd do eighteen. Then he'd run on with that Lucky Leprechaun crap. Yeah, he had me laughing. But in my defense, I've already said I was an idiot. By the way, those numbers weren't made up. Plus we had a world class drift going on. A dead quarter of a mile an hour. A scull now and then. How many total fish? Not a clue.
     Headed east in the morning. Moving toward the lodge a dozen miles away. We had a site in mind. Back at the office I'd grabbed a Burntwood Lodge map. On it, four miles west of the lodge, sat a shore lunch spot right where a large stream entered the lake. Could simply have said 'Walleyes nearby.' Two days left to find that patch. The candle was gettin' short but still throwin' light, by gar.
     Sure was an easy day for travel. Sunshine and shade. Light breeze. Deep bay after deep bay. Islands everywhere. So much lake and it all looked good. Huge but more like dozens of small lakes hooked together. Should have flown directly into Burntwood and explored it for twelve days. You know, that's a helluvan idea. Maybe call Larry Gogal. Run the idea by him. When do we leave?  Ten days. Five campsites. Fish as we go. Stop when we find them. No portages. Big coolers. Lotta food and bug juice. Oh yeah, I forgot. Al's married. Wife and child. Everyone else thinks I'm an idiot. An old idiot to boot. Guess I'll head on down the block and fish for bullheads instead.
     Finally, in the deepest bay, tight cabin on the east shore and total wreck, ghetto trapper's cabin on the west, sat a fine site. With a view of the ghetto no less. Rather see it from across the bay than camp by it. Easy landing. Tent ten yards back, hidden from shore by a brush line. Only drawback was an occasional buzzing outboard in the distance. Probably gonna have company sooner or later.

Glass on the Water

     I could go into detail about the fishing but there wasn't much to detail. The trip was winding down. Our hopes for glory and master patches dwindling to nil. Can't say I was disappointed. We'd terrorized our share. Mostly it was time to enjoy where we were. Make the time stretch. Awareness of the moment is a big deal. Relax, pay attention. Doing nothing, after all, was what we did best. The food pack wasn't much fun any more. Outside of mastering pan bread. No, we weren't turning into grizzled bannock pros. Prepackaged was more our speed. Allan had spent a summer vacation as a griddle cook. His solution to pan bread was lots of lube in the pan. Float it, don't burn it. All we had was butter. That was fine with him and he troweled it on. Didn't look healthy to me. But since I'm a believer in balance, I figured the stiffening of my arteries would be easily offset by the loosening of my bowels. On the other hand, it sure ate good.
     On Wednesday we had our first visitors. Not much more than a nod and howdy as they trolled by. Figured the boys in the front to be lodge sports. The black haired man at the tiller, the guide. I looked at them, particularly the guide, feeling a little nervous. We weren't but a half mile from the well manicured cabin. The thought of trespass, if such a thing was possible up here, had entered my mind. Nothing was said as they passed about getting the hell off their land. So we didn't.

Scruffy Dudes on Last Night

     Back when we'd flown out, I'd told Larry we'd be showin' up at the lodge in twelve days. Didn't want to disappoint. We were out of the bags by six on Thursday. Had a flight to catch. Put on our least stained duds. Rummaged through the refuse in the food pack for some calories. On the water way early with only an hour's paddle to the lodge. No hurry. Wasn't much past seven on a light breeze morning. Took our first break at the head of the bay. Weren't ready for this trip to end. Meant another year was down the tubes. A second break with a mile to go, the lodge in view. Figured if we could see them, they could see us. Then we cranked it up. Die straight. Time to look like the real deal. Fool 'em but good. Make a serious wake. Flew past the the small mob assembled around Larry and the docked float plane. Came in at full speed parallel to the spruce pole landing beach. Finished it off with a spinning one-eighty park job, tight to the poles. No one saw it. Had to stroke my ego once again. Seemed the others had bigger fish to fry.
     The group was gathered around Gogal to get the pecking order for the first flight out. Way too many bodies to fit in the Norseman at once. Then a loony spun it's way into the air. Tails. Half a dozen began to load gear, the rest mumbled off. Al and I edged our way up to the man. Larry said he'd be back after an Air Canada inspection. We'd be on the next flight. Probably by eleven. 'Til then we should make ourselves at home. Not a problem. Still deep into the on the trail mode we did takin' it easy like a couple of masters.
     We turned just in time to see the aroma lines drifting in the air just like in a cartoon. Let me tell ya, something about the smell of fried bacon lets a body know that breakfast ain't really breakfast if it's gorp and warm lemonade. Also reminds me of Basic Training. Can't get away from that balance in life stuff. We followed those floating lines uphill toward the lodge to see if there was actual food hooked onto that smell. Knowing how we looked and we were also non-paying outsiders and there was an air about us, we were extra special polite when we asked if there might be a crust of bread we could gnaw on. "French toast okay with you boys?" Holey moley! With bacon, milk and orange juice no less. Had to keep reminding myself, 'Chew it. Taste it. Don't just inhale it'. Seeing as how we did have cash and plastic, I asked for the tab. "Larry says its on the house." I almost ran outside to see if the bill was actually up there - we'd been in the boonies for a dozen days but thank God I hadn't lost my poor sense of humor. A simple "Wow" and "Thank you," was enough.
     Then she crinkled her nose. Waved a hand in front of it. "You boys by any chance want a shower, eh?"  She pointed toward the lodge bathroom. "Towels and wash cloths are in the hall closet. And, by the way, you might want to take the dead walleyes out of your pockets. They're gettin' a might too natural smelling." The sarcasm alone nearly burned us clean. And what that missed, hot water and soap finished off. Not much we could do about the same old clothes. Nothin' left to do now but head out back, pitch the shoes and pass the old half-inflated football. Heard they didn't much care whether there was any air in the ball at all up here in the Great White North. The game they played on an over-sized field was just an excuse to pummel the hell out of someone else also silly enough to wear tight pants with padded shoulders.
     Headed indoors and perused the lodge photo album.  The fish pictures were okay but the one's showing all the lodge building material and equipment being flown and helicoptered in were impressive. Seeing a small fleet of fishing boats being delivered in one flight told me that roping a canoe to a pontoon was child's play at the Burntwood Lodge. Getting a glimpse of the work that went into setting up and keeping an operation like this one running told me a lot about the Gogal family. I hope things go well for them for as long as they want to keep the lodge open.
     Lunch rolled around and still no Larry. Sports and guides also rolled around. Buzzed from their morning's free fishing. They'd been working a spot called the barrel. To this point the fish hadn't been big or found anywhere else. The day before, when we'd had our first visitors, they were checking out the shore lunch spot for any action. Nada. Seems our luck had been typical. The word came down that Larry and the Feds were still hashing it out. Not goin' anywhere 'til at least three. Howdy do, the lunch was on the house. Northwoods meat and 'taters. Livin' off de fat of de lan'.
     Spent the afternoon schmoozing with the guides. Good men. Met the man who owned the fine cabin we'd been camped near. Talked with a guide from eastern Canada name of Paul. At one time or another they all gave the Wenonah a hoist. Not a one had seen kevlar before. Seems they'd all been raised on cedar and canvas or heavy duty aluminum. "You hoist one of dem bad boys wit da ten horse Johnson still hooked on, plus da food pack for two weeks an' you've got yourself a man's load, eh. Da toilet paper I wipe my butt wit weigh more den dat plastic birdie boat of yours." None of them actually said that but when one of the Gogal boys balanced our canoe on his nose, I got the message. Struck me as ironic that up here on the edge where such a boat would spend more time on the water than in the garage, they'd never seen kevlar.
     Paul gave us an idea for a trip we'll never take. Got a few of those. This one wasn't exactly a trek but did cover some miles. A seven to nine day'er depending on the weather or the fishing. We'd have Larry fly us into File or Little Norris. Then it was south through Morton. The Four Mile Portage that Paul called the Three Mile Portage. I guess up in the Land of Real Men it's Four miles, Three Miles, what's the difference, eh? He says it's an easy carry (guffaw). Then follow the north shore of Reed through what he called the maze of islands. Out on the Grass River. Down twelve mile long Tramping Lake. Back on the Grass to Larry's house on the edge of Snow Lake. Three big lakes and that portage. Even at sixty-four, I think it'd still be something I could do. Not alone, that's for sure.
     Larry didn't make it at three o'clock either. The Feds were still working him over. No flight out today. A dozen sports got a free day on the water. The breaks of a fly-in. Al and I were given a lodge bedroom. And dinner. And free beer. And the use of a boat and motor if we wanted. Guess we were sports now.
     Got the clothes packs from under the canoe and moved into our room. Wasn't fancy. Just clean and not a tent. Tidied up and out for beer during social hour. In the short stroll down the hall the spirit came upon me. This spirit has visited me many times over the years. Its a kind of possession. Having a priest and holy water handy would have been helpful. But it was just poor defenseless me against the powers of darkness. The introductory sentences had already formed in my brain but that was it. Entering the room I called out, "Gentlemen! Gentlemen! May I please have your attention!. My son and I have just arrived from twelve days in the bush. We are very tired. When you return from fishing this evening could you please hold the noise down?" Dead silence. My demon hadn't gone beyond this point. Left me holding the bag. A single bead of sweat eased it's way down behind my left ear. Off in the distance the first mayfly of the year could be heard gracefully touching down on the lake. In the hope something would come out, I opened my mouth, "Headline in paper. Minnesota Man Found Dead in Manitoba Forest." A burst of laughter. No doubt springing from the relief of not making the headline real.
     Supper a tad lighter than lunch. One of the guides reminded us that Larry'd said we could use a boat and motor. Turned it down. Heck, we were fished out. Headed for the dock with smokes and book. Never cracked open the book. For three hours we sat and talked. Allan's life in the working world was just starting. Mine, on the downturn toward retirement. Mostly Al talked of his present and how it related to his future. Why not? His future carried a lot more weight than mine. I'd learned a few things of importance in my fifty-six years. Hard not to. Threw in a word once in a while. After all, he was living in a world I'd helped make. What can you say to a son that carries weight and truth? Probably our few months in the boonies and how we handled it together probably said more than any words I could come up with. Twenty-four hours a day for nearly three months. What a great time. Sunshine, storm, broken bones, zillions of fish. We'd seen a lot. Each moment a treasure. Life is good? Damn right it is.
     A guide and sport trolled by. We waved. Wished them luck. An hour later they trolled back. We hadn't moved. Then what we'd been waiting for happened. The sun dropped below the trees. And we headed into bed.
     Larry Gogal flew in Friday morning. Paperwork snafu. Something about dotted 'i's and crossed 't's. Overnight the temperature had plummeted. Strong winds roared down from the Arctic. Good day to not be paddling across Iskwasum as originally planned. We were on the first load out.
     In Snow Lake Al said we were driving all the way home that day even if he had to drive every mile himself. Left around ten a.m. Arrived home sixteen hours later. Dropped Al off at his apartment. Bone tired.

Learning Curve '03 - Third and Fourth Sites

     Around lunchtime we found our river narrows. But no moving water. And no walleyes. A shallow reef ran shore to shore. On the upside there was a splendid landing a hundred yards downstream. Too good to pass up. So here's the drill; if you can land the boat there'll always be a bed of moss waiting for your tent nearby. May not have a water view but that's no problem. In this case we had a minute's uphill walk into the woods. You know, wilderness camping's kind of like a cruise ship. Outside of bedtime, you're not going to be in your cabin. Once in the tent you can't see anything anyhow. So having a view is meaningless. 'Spose you could leave the fly off. I said, you could. Not me. When I'm outside the realm of weather.com, the only way I want to know that it's raining at night is the sound of drops on a taut fly, not on my sleeping bag. The Voyageurs slept in the open. If they were wealthy they had a blanket. A different era. If top hats made of beaver come back into fashion, I'll shuck the tent. 'Til then....
     Spent three nights there. Woulda been two but were windbound on departure day. Gray skies, white caps, blue boys. That first afternoon and evening we worked miles of river. Nothin' nowhere. No weeds, no minnows jumping. 'Til we came to a small, swampy bay. Wasn't more than a fistful of small pike but maybe a sign of what to look for. Got me to pondering. Around the corner from our camp there sat a seriously big, swampy bay. Three feeder streams shown on the map. And a twenty acre pool in the middle. Itty, bitty lake-in-a-lake.

Always the Panfisherman

     When there's no fish on the line my mind drifts into theorizing about it. Fills in the gaps. There's always a dozen possibilities why it's bad. Nearly as many when it's good. Always searching for a pattern. Sometimes I'm right on. Most times I'm not. Try this, try that. Here or there? When we catch a couple, does that mean anything more than dumb luck? Turned out that night the big bay was on the money. Lotta weeds. Lotta fish. Good sized pike. A double on ten pounders. More sixteen inch walleyes. And a couple of jumbo perch. Perch? What the hell was that all about? Best eating fish in fresh water. Let 'em go.
     Our sittin' and cookin' area was out on the slab. Spent a lot of time there. So it had a slight tilt to it. And it may have been the center of a heavy gravity zone. Kurt Vonnegut made mention of their partners, light gravity zones, and their effect on the male member. No doubt they both have an effect on a person's sense of balance. In truth I have no excuse. While finishing supper dishes Allan simply said, "Don't step there Dad. I spilled some water." Used the same elbow as the first time to break my fall.
     A front moved in on day two. Slowed fishing to a crawl. Even in the swamp. Everywhere else it was about the same. While sittin' in our chairs we watched a mama bear and her cubs pass by on the far side of the swamp. Bears are supposed to have a keen sense of smell. Good thing we were down wind or they'd have lit upon us like we were the town dump. Licked us to death like stinksickles.

                                    Emil on Bears

     I don't usually give a rat's patoot about bears so long as they leave me alone. But I just gotta get a couple of things off my chest. First off my nephew never mentioned the great white hunter at the Burntwood Lodge. Just like him to forget that. During the Larry Gogal paper work snafu, this old guy, yeah he was around seventy years old and seventy pounds on the south side of healthy, felt the need to kill him a bear. So he forked over the cash, hooked up with a guide and the two of them lit out for the garbage barrel. Don't know what happened next but it seems he got his rug. Just don't get those kind of people.
     Not the real reason I butted in though. My grand niece-in-law made this request, so here she goes. Smokey Bear. Not Smokey the Bear. That's some song from the '50s. Smokey Bear, that's his real name. He was born after Walt Disney took back Bambi from the USFS. Seems the Japanese had been trying to start forest fires out in California during the war by shelling the shore from a submarine. That's the Second World War for those of you who don't know. Didn't fight them outside of that one. The government made up these posters showing how the bad guys, Hitler and Tojo, were trying to win the war by burning up our woods. So's people could tell who were the good guys and who were the bad guys on those posters, they put Bambi on ours and gave Tojo these big buck teeth and super thick glasses on their's. Even Tojo's mother would have thought him to be one seriously ugly bastard. Disney must have figured he wasn't getting enough of the war chest so he took Bambi back after one year. Way to go Walt!
     After that the USFS did a cartoon search for a replacement cartoon character. Almost came out with a series of Porky Pig posters but couldn't get the Only You can Prevent Forest Fires! in big enough letters to fit on the poster what with Porky's speech impediment and all. Would have been a humdinger in my opinion. So as a last resort they went with a bear. Perfectly woodsy and all. Of course they couldn't have his dingle-dangle hangin' out so they put pants on him. Gave him a Smokey Bear hat for his head. Only it wasn't called that until afterwards. The rest is... well, you know.

     Catch and release, I've mentioned it now and then but never gone into the whys and wherefores. Some say they do it to improve the fish stock for future generations. Admirable. Some argue against it and the pursuit of fish in general. A barbaric and needless torturing of our fellow animals. Logical and humane. As for myself, I see it this way. Hooking a fish in the face definitely puts the fear of God in them. At some point in the fight they might even figure they're as good as dead. Give up the ghost. Then they're pulled into the air. Not their element for sure. Jaws spread by steel. Pliers jammed in their mouth. All horrors. Can't argue with that. Ah, but then they're released. Freed. Raised from the dead. It's all so Christian I get goose bumps. Imagine their joy in rejoining the living. Swimming away thinking, "I'm alive! I'm alive! Ain't never gonna do that again!" Catch 'em, release 'em, teach 'em a lesson. Words to live by. Also, filleting is a whole lot of icky work.
     Warning: Ecological moment coming up. There was a single opening in the brush behind the slab which directed our path to the tent. As did the following trees and boulders. Probably stomped down the resulting path at least two dozen times.  Over the three days we'd visibly beaten a trail. Not exactly the Cumberland Gap, but a trail for sure. Might even be there now, eight years later. The northwoods has the look of eternity. And underneath it's about as close as this planet comes. But it doesn't take much for Mother Nature to break a nail while trying to get a grip on a land where the growing season is only four months long. Fragile country up north.

Ready to Move On

     Needing a new rock to on which to fall, we moved on. The river had us spoiled. Wound a lot but wasn't snake-like. Mostly we moved forward. Our next corner usually no more than a quarter mile away. Distant lake shores, tree lines that never seemed to grow, took endless chunks of time. A river, now that was a lot of fun. Twisting, moving in and out like a concertina. Always changing. Intimate. Playful. The miles are the same length but pass so much faster.
     We paddled through a small burn area. Larry'd said there was an Indian fish camp nearby. Saw no camp, no First Nationers. Guessed they weren't in camp 'cause the the fish weren't ready to be caught. No surprise there. Would have been an interesting sight. Maybe even a place to pull in and pass a few minutes. I'd read about them. Olson described one in detail in The Lonely Land. As it was, we were heading toward a small, fishy looking river opening, thick with islands. When we found it, the shorelines toyed with us. Hundreds of yards of canoe slicing shelf. If the water was two feet higher it'd have been a slide ashore. Finally we bit the bullet. Pulled tight and carefully offloaded. Back in the old days, it would have been large scale pitchin' and tarin' the birchbark time. Thank you space-age.

"Can't Seem to Find Any Moss  Allan"

     Wasn't much of a site. Landing, kitchen and tent were set up in a triangle, two hundred yards to the side. The tent way back in the woods. The kitchen in a small clearing back in the bush. We had a brief river view from where we sat. If anything, the fishing was worse.
     Deep in the bay behind our camp a small stream entered. She was like a winding staircase. Forty or fifty foot descent. Falls, pool, falls, pool. Trickle, trickle. Had we peed at the top of it, the flow would have doubled. We climbed her to the top. Paused now and then to bask in the beauty of what might have been. We missed a lot simply though bad timing.
     In the late afternoon we heard the buzz of an outboard. Sittin' in camp, trudging through Eternity. As good as invisible up in the bush. A black haired man, possibly a member of the First Nation, alone in the stern, off to some unknown destiny. We kept our silence. Moved not a hair. Seemed to me like a reversal of roles. Aboriginal - give me a break here. We're in Canada for the Pete's sake. Can't be callin' the man a Native American. Way too United States-like. Sometimes we think we're the only country on this continent. Seemed from the maps that the Cree in this neck of the woods were members of the First Nation, were called Aboriginals and lived on Indian Reservations. Never did figure it out. The guy was probably a member of the Cree Nation. Would have been so much simpler had I known his name - moving passed using Twentieth Century technology. Us sittin' in the woods wearin' hand-me-downs and traveling by canoe. Made me want to throw some rocks or fire off a couple of arrows to let him know we were there. But he probably had a fire stick and wouldn't understand we only wanted to talk. Best we kept quiet. He was our only fellow human in eight days. Unless passenger jet contrails count.

Learning Curve '03 - Second Site

     Seemed the walleyes thought they were trout. Holding in the fast water and waiting for mayflies that looked like #5 spinners. Half an hour of hardly-even-trying fun. Coulda caught more but now we had a campsite to find. Seeing as how the plan was to take it as it came and since it just came, we'd pull ashore at the next opportunity. Return after lunch and do some serious headhunting. In truth we weren't so much looking for numbers as we were looking for size. Master angler size. Wall of certificates and patches to sew on the outfit I'd be buried in. Sticker on the coffin reading 'A Bad Day's Fishing Beats a Good Day Being Dead.' Never been dead before but I figured it wasn't as hot as it was cracked up to be, even in heaven. Matter of opinion so don't get all huffed up about it.
     Below the rapids shot a quarter mile chute of a canyon. Half a paddle blade deep in the low water conditions. Looked like it'd been carved and polished by centuries of glacial runoff. Maybe started as a crack in a cliff and then eroded away. Spooky spot. Probably spookier in high water when that little stretch passed water like a toilet flushing and canoes were disposed of like... well, you get the image.

Perhaps Eight Feet from the Fall Spot

     Less than a mile later we found a perfect camp. Peninsula. Flat slab landing, filtered sunlight, moss-bedded tent site. Learned right off that cameras don't float. And if you don't find them right away, they don't work anymore. Here we also learned to crawl the moss before setting up the tent. Feel around for rocks and branches. Even the finest of self-inflating air mattresses does little to soften granite. Take my word for that.
     Lunch and a paddle back to the rapids. Guess who we ran into on the way? Rub-a-dub-dub. Setting up for a shore lunch. The spot they chose sucked. Guess we'd taken their intended lunchroom. Such is life. Nearing the fast water, we watched the third boat packing up, "Think we gottem all. Let's eat'em down stream and crap'em out tonight on Fairwind. S'what it's all about. Katchin', killin', kookin', krappin, and alliteratin'. Glad we brought the second keg of beer." Oops, there I go again, being an arrogant and ungrateful foreigner.

     Our turn now. Pulled onto the little island ready to catch any stragglers they'd missed. There's a photo of the Wenonah balanced atop several knife edged rocks I've considered sending to the manufacturer. Call it 'Things to Never Do with a Canoe #1'. We pointlessly fan cast the water ' til we were convinced the boogers had indeed caught every pickerel and were chowing down on them at that very moment. Reminded me of a story - Leiningen Versus the Ants - and movie - The Naked Jungle - about an army of ants in South American eating everything in their path. I don't think they got Charlton Heston, thank God. Also the only things naked in the movie were the ants. A serious disappointment to a young man.
     While doing dishes that evening I came one step closer to answering that age old question, 'How much water is required to make continental bedrock slick enough for a 56 year old man to slip and fall?' And it's corollary, 'Which elbow is best to break the resultant fall?' A cup and left. The thought of going horizontal on slick granite has always kept me from swimming in the boonies. A dab of water now and then in the right places seems to be more than enough to ward off bacteria. Never been sick in the northwoods. Also never cracked my skull. In my mind they go hand in glove.
     Fished up and down river on the second day. Nice scenery. In the evening, after having the water to ourselves all day, we hit the rapids one last time. For a change we paddled through and fished from above. Cast down. Snags be damned. Deal with them when and if. Took a lot of boat control. But the method worked just fine. Mostly I sculled and Allan caught. Seemed every walleye on the File was about sixteen inches long. Doubled once so we weren't catching the same one over and over.
     Mostly to work a  line loop off the lip of the spool, I threw a long cast back into the lake. Son of a gun. Big pike. Not a trophy but solidly over ten pounds. Seemed like Larry Gogal was right. Moving water. Who'd have thought a man who spent a lifetime outdoors in that country would have it figured out? Kinda takes the fun out of it in my opinion. Ignorance is happiness. Somehow that doesn't sound right but I'll stick with it for the moment. Earlier he'd added that July was the best time to fish this country. 'Yeah, most of the Master Angler Awards are caught in June. Because that's when most of the fishing is done. Winter's are long up here. Fishermen get an itchy casting finger and get on the water as soon as possible.'

Lucky Catch

     We fished into the dark. caught several more big pike and a fistful of walleyes. By any measure it was a fine evening. But I'd been spoiled and wanted nothing short of phenomenal. Seemed to again be missing the point that the best can only happen once. But I keep hoping it's still up the road waiting for me.
     Aha! We had a pattern. Bottlenecks in the river. It sure seemed like whenever the File narrowed down, the walleyes had a hangout. Checked the map. Found just such a spot another two hours down river. Packed and moved in the morning. Looking back from the wisdom of the future, it's easy to say we shoulda stayed put. Good walleyes both ends of that little lake. Big pike. Maybe there were other treasures. Said it before, at the crossroads you can only go one way. The other remains a mystery.
     Along the way we checked out all the feeder streams. Not feedin'. Dust bowl in the far north. Topping it off, the river had that lime green look of a sand bottom that's always felt like no fish here to me. Didn't see that coming when I'd looked at the maps. Heck the rivers there were blue. Or when I read those 'Monster Pike of the File River' articles back at Ole's Barber Shop and Small Engine Repair in 1959 Minneapolis. It's just possible there was some shuckin' and jivin' coming off those outdoorsman's typewriters. Can't make much money getting skunked. So they never did. Cripes, I was only twelve years old. How was I to know that pipe-smokin', plaid-shirted, bamboo-roddin' dude was blowing more smoke than he was inhaling? Or that Presidents had a hard time keeping their zippers up? Or that the jerk-offs run the world and we fall for their lines like sunfish sluggin' down grasshoppers. Well, sucks to them all. And, for that matter, where's my big walleye? Need that patch.

                                  

Learning Curve '03 - First Site

     The floor of the B&B paralleled the planet beneath. It's a harsh country in the far north. The beds were fine, the showers hot. Breakfast was self-serve and a choice between Fruit Loops and Frosted Flakes. Guess I wasn't expecting more for fifty bucks. Al and I agreed the plan was to find Larry Gogal. Let him know we'd showed up. Learn the plan for the day. When and figure out where. His answer was supposed to be,
     "Oh, a couple of hours. Maybe a little less. The engine fell out of the plane last night. Won't be long once Gaston sobers up and remembers where he left the tools. If you lads ain't had nuthin' to eat, head on over to Clarissa's Olde Country Inn. Serves the finest breakfast dumplings in Manitoba. Got a hard to describe taste. Her Eggs Canadienne with a side of brown gravy cubes are something else. Sticks to your ribs but not your intestines."
     Didn't have far to drive. Headed toward the lake a block away and there she was. The sign wasn't big but the planes on the lake behind the office were clue enough. His answer to, "How long?" was, "Five minutes." Enough time to hand over the cash, buy a hat and read the article on the wall. Been in the business for twenty-five years, coupla planes, helicopters, reliable, quality man. The main plane was an ancient Norseman. As for breakfast, ah hell, real men don't need no breakfast. Suck it up, head to da horizon. Eat da dirt, drink da lake and crap in da woods.
     Never gave a thought one way or the other how our dealings with Larry Gogal would work out. He sure looked the part. Friendly, neat, clean, outdoorsy, a hint of military in his dress. The whole operation seemed tight. Northwoods office organized, computerized. Any possibility of something going wrong never entered my head. A scan was enough. From step one he quietly took charge. He knew what he was doing and his actions proved it. All we had to do was listen and follow his suggestions. "Why don't you drive down to the dock? Save you a lot of steps."
     I'd read horror stories of canoe fly-ins that started with the questions, "Got any rope?" and "You guys ever tie a canoe on a plane before?" Not Larry. We loaded our gear as instructed, then his lodge supplies. Finally the canoe was placed on a pontoon and leaned on the struts. He grabbed twenty feet of half inch rope. With a couple of simple lashings, a trucker's hitch and she was bonded to the plane. Not one quiver in the twenty minute flight.
     The plane? Looked like it just rolled off the assembly line. Like Uncle Emil's Nomad. Big single prop Norseman with computerized navigation. Set the coordinates. Keep the little plane silhouette on the line. Simple. So long as you could get it up, keep it in and get it down from the sky. Every time. I doubt Mr. Gogal needed the computer but it did instill a lot of confidence in us 21st Century pansies.
     Al sat up front for the view. Larry fired it up then taxied to get an up wind angle. With a roar and a rush we were off. Been in jet liners, four props, two props, Hueys and Chinooks. Never a single engine. Let us know where the air currents were as we bounced and wobbled along in slow motion.
     Back in the office we'd talked destinations. On the phone I'd said File Lake 'cause I knew where it was. Beyond that File was no more than a name to me. When push came to shove, it really didn't matter where we began. Wherever we started it was farther in the boonies than we'd ever been. And the farther we'd previously headed into the bush meant better and better fishing. Larry's first destination for the day was his outpost on Dow Lake. A few miles closer to the lodge than File. And also that much farther in the backwoods. That was fine with us.

     Flying over the land beat the pants off looking at a map. Those blue blobs and squiggles on the map meant lakes and streams. Static and level. From the air it was all about drainage. A couple of thousand feet up the big picture was obvious. So much bare rock. Trees here and there. Burn patches where life was pushed back to square one. And the million square miles scraped clean by glaciers exposed. But mostly the picture was the land trying it's best to drain off glacial melt water and rain. Made me wonder if the drainage would be complete, the lakes gone, before the next ice age.
     Conversation was nearly impossible. The bird we were in was noisier than a hundred raven's nests. Me and Al shot photos like a couple of Japanese tourists. Why not? Probably wouldn't get another chance.
     Landed on Dow and moored to a floating dock at the outpost. Unloaded. Larry scavenged the cabin and removed garbage. I resorted the trash looking for breakfast. What the heck, outside of the tent, we were homeless. Hit a mother load of apples, bananas and pop tarts. Al turned up his nose. I stuffed it down. Didn't taste all that good. Maybe better than c-rations. On the other hand, the calories would come in handy over the next few hours. You are what you eat and ain't what you crap. Words to live by. We hung out on the dock until Gogal was airborne. Fun to watch but mostly I didn't want him to watch our zig-zag into the wilderness. Might call us back and not let us go. The first hour was always tenderfoot time. But we'd get our sea legs in a few miles.

Larry Gogal on Dow Lake 

     No hurry to be anywhere. Seven miles a day would get us to the Burntwood Lake Lodge in time for our flight out. Like all of of our previous trips, this wasn't an expedition. Just a fishing trip by canoe. And time to hang out together. Father-son time? Yeah, that's what I said it was. Made me sound like a real role model. One of my nephews wanted this to be a father-son story that made up for the one I never had. It wasn't that way at all. Never knew my father and never much missed him. Hard to miss someone that was never really there. I went with Al 'cause we'd grown to be best friends. Yup, there was more going on than just friendship. Sometimes that was a good thing. Sometimes it got in the way. Raising a child adds a lot of baggage to a relationship. Let's just say that the first trip was a father-son thing. As for the rest, we were with the person we most wanted to be with on a boonies fishing trip.
     Once in the exit stream Al picked up his rod. No better way to find fish. Or not. Seemed like we were on Minnehaha creek in South Minneapolis. Looked like it. Fished like it. We entered our first lake, Fairwind, a widening of the File River. Twenty yards away stood a pair of sandhill cranes. Good start. First I'd ever seen. Recognized them by their name tags. Two minutes later we spooked a grazing moose. Both came as a surprise. Wilderness animals in the wilderness? Didn't see that coming. Don't think Bullwinkle liked us. A few trots, a swim, a wagging moon from the brush and he was gone. Finally, Al began to find the walleyes. Not a bad start for the day. Fairwind seemed to have it all. The river's egress passed through a small canyon. Looked like there was a landing and a spot for the tent. Not far from Dow but this seemed as good a spot as any.
     Then, no more than a hundred yards from the channel we saw, rub-a-dub-dub, six dudes in three tubs. Boats sunk to the gunwales with beer and gear. Big boys. A couple beyond big. Not moving fast. Doubt their outboards had enough horsepower to move 'em more than canoe speed. Where did they come from? Wasn't a town for forty miles and that was at the end of fifty miles of gravel. And there they were, putt-putting onto our lake. Oh well. Crowded out of paradise. Felt like Adam. First the woman, she was okay. Then the snake. Gettin' crowded. Time to move on. No need to get all huffy, God. This place ain't what it used to be.
     We let 'em pass. Said a fond farewell. Paddled through the canyon and onto Limestone Point Lake.

                               Muskie Aside

     On the 4th of July, on a beach at Leech Lake, Minnesota, my son Allan bare-handed and gill-lifted a 38-40 inch muskie. Yeah, I know, haven't we all? The fish was finning the shallows when we approached the beach. Al spotted it, then he and two others pursued it for five minutes. At first Al only touched the muskie to see what it would do. Rather than attack, the fish surfaced and torpedoed away. Finally, the three of them cornered it on a sand bar. There, Allan pinned it to the bottom, slid his fingers under the gills and hoisted it for a few photos. Probably been done before but then again, maybe not. You never know when a family legend will be born. Guess we could call this one 'muskie plucking'. He's posted photos on his designer blog and on twitter. Allan Peters. Don't know if that will do you any good. Send comments if you'd like.

     Big, meandering, kinda sloppy looking s-curve water. Island and reef filled. Larry had mentioned a trapper's cabin somewhere down lake. Nothing more than a last resort in our minds. Seen 'em before. Building would most likely be a step down from the bottom of an outhouse. With luck there'd be a clearing and a landing. Gotta remember, this was our first real boonies trip. Find-your-own campsite. No grills or diamonds out here. On thousands of acres with dozens of points and islands we figured there'd be something primo. Step one was to find a landing. We kept our eyes open and fished as we moved. Time and miles passed. Hunger built. Clouds moved in. Sprinkles began. The search began in earnest.
     From a half mile's distance most every point looked good. And a disappointment from up close. Larry'd said water levels were down. Those constant mini-cliffs were no doubt fine in high water. Still, they could be done. But why? Had to be something ahead. What low water taketh, it no doubt giveth. Ain't that Biblical?
     Mid afternoon we spotted the trapper's cabin. Had to backtrack a tad. We bobbed and scanned off-shore. Crap Hole City for sure. But we'd seen worse. Collapsing log dock. Logs strewn on shore. All bristling with rusted spikes. By now you know me and my aversion toward rusted spikes. They make big holes in canoes and feet. We landed anyhow to stretch our legs. Waist high thistles filled the clearing.  Misery central. A ten minute smoke break and we moved on. The trapper's cabin made the rest of the world look better.
     Over the next hour we weaved a chain of islands with no success. Nearing the end of the lake we passed a landing, clearing, tepee and building with a sign out front. Don't exactly remember the wording on the sign but it seemed to be a Cree Rotary meeting site. And felt like a major trespass to pull ashore. This was a land Olson had traveled more than a half century earlier. No longer had the feel of the old Hudson Bay Trading posts. Guess if we really wanted the land to ourselves we should have flown five hundred miles farther north. Ah Wilderness! She is a harlot who comes with a steep price tag.

Waikiki North

     A mile farther sat a last gasp peninsula. Anything beyond and we were heading north up the File. At first glance the shore looked the same as all the rest. But the closer we paddled the odder it looked. Out of focus like. To this point the number of sand beaches we'd seen in Canada just about equalled the number of UFO's. Now sand was one up.
     Landing was easy. Climbing to the campsite, not so. An eight foot, root and brush grabbing got us to the top. There, at the very tip of the peninsula was just enough space for tent and kitchen. Really more of a perch than a site. Packs and gear had to be handed up. Set the canoe on logs to keep sand out and give us a rolling launch. Half an hour later we were set and the stove fired up. Allan hadn't eaten all day. Nothing like the sound of drooled saliva sizzling away in a hot pan. His moaning during the meal was understandable.
     Here we began our pattern of travel for the next twelve days. When I'd told Larry Gogal we were going to take a dozen days to paddle from Dow to the lodge, he'd said, "What're you gonna do for the other ten days." Putz, fish and see the country of course. Still not enough time to really see everything and do all the side trips. But we could sure put a dent in it. Larry'd told us to look for moving water. Entering streams and rapids. Not a one near our camp. Also not a lot of walleyes. Back in Minnesota, tough fishing meant put on the slip bobber and jig for panfish. Good luck trying that up here. Not a bluegill within five hundred miles. Too shallow for lakers. Too cold for bass. Walleyes and pike. Love 'em or leave. Hate to let the cat out of the bag but fishing on the File wasn't easy. Hit or miss. Found them once in a while. Even hammered them now and then. Tightly bunched with long spaces between. A whole lot of casting practice. But we didn't know that on our first night. Took it as it came. Tent up, food in the pack and eight hundred pages of From Here to Eternity to work our way through. Life was good.
     You know, not all fishing trips bring a lot of fish. Surprise, surprise. You'd think fifty miles into the bush and six hundred miles north of the border would be fish-a-cast. But it ain't. Maybe the fault was us, throwing the wrong stuff. Maybe the time of year. Wind direction. Barometric pressure. Or that the File just wasn't a fertile looking river. Moving water? Only once. As for entering streams, most weren't entering. A few trickling. From our experience, the northland was going through a drought. Our last three trips, covering thirty-six days, produced no more than a quarter inch of rain. Good for us, not for the land. Hearsay told tales of cold, dry winters. Whatcha gonna do? It was what it was. And mediocre fishing with no rain sure beat the opposite.
     Last observation. Not once during our years in Canada did we have a clue what we were in for. Blind crap-shoot from the get-go. I'd stare at the maps. Find a place that looked interesting and we'd go. If it looked like a tough go, so be it. Simple as that. A lot of fun, actually. Made no sense. I liked that. Can't say I recommend that for most people. Once asked a cousin, single and in good shape, if he'd be interested in a Canada canoe trip. Explained how it'd be. Said, "Sounds a little hard core to me."
     Fished down river on the second evening. In what appeared to be an unnamed lake we worked prime pike property to the tune of more casting practice. It sure were pretty though. Back in the city, stuck in frozen traffic, the idea of being skunked surrounded by Canadian beauty sounds like a trade a person'd take without a second thought. That is if there were no bugs included. Actually sitting there in the back of the canoe, ain't much more than a 'pass the smokes' and a thoughtful 'Hmm.' Feet go up on the gunwales. Look around. Listen. A drag on the cigarette the loudest sound around. Light rush of breeze through the spruces. Aspen rustle. A fly buzzes by like a shot. Butt shift. A creak of cane and ash. There's a time to cast and a time to listen. When you live in a world of noise, being able to hear the brrt of a pine squirrel fart can sound like the squeak of the pearly gates.
     Getting late and headed back. Around the corner, back on the File, bunched in a knot, walleye heaven. Sun below the trees. Drifting into twilight. Three miles from camp. The crack between the worlds when the spooks wake up. The two of us playing catch and release with a whole lot of pickerel. Allan jigging jigs with a Power Grub. Me jigging a spinner 'cause I was too lazy to change rods. He outfished me but not so's anyone would notice. Like there was anyone there to notice. Got me to thinking, 'In eighty miles of river, how many pockets of unseen fish does a person paddle over?' We'd stopped because of a cabbage top. I'm a devout believer in cabbage. And not even Irish. Six feet of water. We sat right on top of them. Beauty of innocence. So unspoiled it seemed a shame to impale them with steel hooks. But we did. Lotsa trash talk and laughter. We slept that night with smiles on our faces. The peace of knowing we could yet outsmart a few fish descended on our dreams.
     The morning found us with gear in canoe and retracing our path down river. No plan, we'd travel 'til we stopped. Figured we'd put a couple of hours under the boat then start looking for a landing. Crossed the Unnamed Lake. At the river's egress fifty yards of fast water, split by an island. Never gave it a second thought. Pulled tight to shore in an ebb alongside the rapids and grabbed the rods. Seeing as how there were no portages in our future, we traveled, rods strung and stashed fore and aft, like whip antennae.

Learning Curve '03 - Changing Plans

     Each succeeding entry gets tougher to write. Yes, each trip was different. But what can be said to keep it interesting? Seems like I keep crossing the line into the repetitive. Even I get bored. Uncle Emil won't talk to me. And when he does, his index finger wags at me like I'm eight years old again. Yes Uncle Emil, it was me who forgot to put the minnow bucket back in the river. Mea culpa (like an old Lutheran like him would know what that meant). Anyhow, I'll give it a shot and see what comes out.

     Last two week trip. Probably our last trip, period. Allan was done with school and on the job. A 21st Century intern affair where you don't get paid much but are thankful for getting paid at all. A Graphic Designer no less. A long cry from his ancestors slinging manure and hoping there was enough food in the larder to last 'til Spring. All by the by. But, as a beginner making next to nothing, his company was open to him disappearing for a couple of weeks in early June. That was fine with both of us.
     Don't know why but any thoughts of reattempting the Four Mile Portage never arose. Grass River was still the destination and new water was the goal. At least for me. Allan didn't seem to mind where we went so long as big fish were involved. Reed and anything accessed through Reed was out. Bob's 'fish a cast' Barb Lake was definitely in. But two weeks on Barb was way too much time. Even with a mucking two mile portage it was no more than five hours each way. A week there, no more. Having no other way to get onto Barb besides air or mucking meant it wasn't going to get crowded. Good. Close to a thousand acres, big walleyes were a possibility. Maybe even trophy pike. Both good. We hung it on the board for a week's stay.
     So, where else? The inexplicably named B.C. Lake rose to the top. Out of the way at the western edge of the park and five to six hundred islanded acres, it looked good on the map. Also not easy to get to. A four mile drive north of Cranberry Portage. An east turn on gravel or sand passed the landfill (had to be a great lake if a dump was involved). A few miles farther with possibly a stream crossing and we'd arrive at a half mile trail to Anvil Lake. From Anvil another five, or so, miles of lake, swamp and portage into B.C. Since the portages were drawn on the official map and since Canadian officials never lie, we figured they must be there. Since the portages were there, B.C. must be accessible. And not just another one of my pipe dreams.

                                              Emil

     My nephew spends way too much time guessin' about stuff. And way too little time livin' in the real world. Maybe came from his time in Vietnam. Tells me he was only there in body. Can't say I blame him for doin' that. Heard it was a real shit hole. As for Grass River Park he says, "Who am I gonna call?" and, "No books, no guides, no nothing." The only info is a few paragraphs in the park brochure. Says there's trees, birds, rocks and fish. That's about it.  So what you gonna do? Paddle in, throw a line and see if anything attaches itself to the end. Won't use a fish finder so it's hit and miss. Good thing he doesn't mind gettin' skunked.
     His plan's usually based on the 'that lake looks good on paper' method. Should have been an art critic not an angler. Counts islands and figures acreage by eyeballin' kilometer squares. Allan's headin' in the right direction by being a graphic designer. Maybe he could get into map making and draw out just the kind of lakes his old man would fall for. I can see Markie now. Lookin' at the map, then the lake, over and over. "Somethin's wrong with the lake. It don't match the map at all." Total bozo.


     Come Spring, that was the plan. A week on B.C., Anvil and maybe a bushwhack or two. Then back to the Jeep for resupply and a drive to Iskwasum. Head into Barb for the second week. Maybe try what looked like a dry mile bushwhack into Vanco Lake. Only half the total food weight on each phase. Not necessarily a great plan but it was new water all the way.
     A few years earlier I'd given some thought to a fly-in trip, gear and all. Probably a flashback to the overheard conversation in '65. Went so far as to send off a couple of letters. One reply. The only part of it I remember is the thirty-five hundred buck price tag. Enough of a shock to cause a mucus blast and an are you shittin' me? And that didn't include the getting there and all the incidentals. For that kind of price tag we could have flown to Hawaii, rented kayaks and camped for two weeks. I wrote fly-ins off as a rich man's game.
     Then along came the internet. Took a while but even a schmuck like me eventually hooked on. Began to explore the possibilities of the wilderness via cyber space. And learned that flights on Cranberry Air would fit into blue collar pockets. Cheap enough to make me suspicious. And recall almost being run over by them in '00. Sometimes I'm too distrustful for my own good.
     So I sucked it up and fired off a couple of e-mail inquiries to Cranberry Air and a service out of Snow Lake to the east of the park, called Gogal Air. Good thing I wasn't holding my breath while waiting.
     Not knowing what the two track out of Cranberry Portage would be like, I bought a come-along and stout rope. Been stuck a couple of times in places that seemed designed to do just that. The idea of being able to winch the Jeep out of a bottomless pit had it's appeal. By mid-May we were about as ready as we could be.
     'Bout the same time Allan began to pester me about actually calling one of the air services. That didn't fly with me and my problem with seeking any kind of help from people I didn't know. A long distance call to some unknown dude in Canada was on the level of asking an insurance salesman over for a cup of coffee. I just don't do that. So I chose what seemed the tougher of the two, Gogal Air. Knew nothing about Snow Lake except some guy named Gogal had a plane there. Of course there was no answer.
     Then I shocked myself. Forty miles north of Snow lake sat the Burntwood Lake Lodge. Owned by the Gogal family. The same Gogal maybe? Couldn't hardly believe myself when I called them. Yup, same guy. Nope, not in. Canoe? You better talk to Larry but he ain't here. Left a message and wrote it off as not gonna happen. Locked myself in the hall closet for two hours as punishment for calling strangers.
     Tuesday before departure I came home from work to find out some flyboy from the boonies had called. Twenty minutes later I'd learned:
     1) Round trip to either File Lake or an outpost cabin on remoter Dow Lake was $550 USD,
     2) Cash was best,
     3) Water levels were down on the File River but he'd check them out with a low fly over,
     4) Out of country calls were an extra charge on our Sprint plan, and
     5) I still like to make lists.
     The man on the phone was the one and only Larry Gogal. Easy to deal with. Then again, seemed like most people who'd lived in the far north got that way. When I asked about a place to stay in Snow Lake he immediately thought of the Blue Nose B&B. Years later I learned that the Blue Nose is the sail boat on the back of the Canadian dime. And the boat was named after the title given one for crossing the Arctic Circle in a boat. B&B unfortunately was not named after the liqueur. Told Gogal we'd be there come Saturday morning. A second call to a nice lady got us a room and directions to the house. Like I'd have any problems finding a building in a town of 1200 people. Whoo boy! Set for some adventure now.
     Eventually it had to happen. On the road before 8 a.m. on a workday for the first time. Took some creative finagling, help from those around me and dodging the boss. Good thing we did. The forecast called for us to meet up with a storm front around 9 a.m. And we had to make the map store in Winnipeg before they closed at 4:30. Somewhere between where we were gonna be dropped off and where we were gonna be flown out there was a hole in our area knowledge. Guessing my way through eighty miles of wilderness ain't my idea of fun. Too much like real adventure.
     The storm hit right on schedule. Wind, rain, thunder and lightning. Finally the crosswind got so strong I had to pull over. Checked the straps and turned the wheel over to Al. Our speed slowed from 75 to 60. Semis we'd flown by earlier now wreaked havoc on the Jeep. If the weather got any worse, we'd have to go home and get Lois to drive. Seems like every time the weather turns bad or there's a bad stretch of road, I'm riding shotgun. Long story short, we were falling behind schedule. Way behind.
     The weather improved near the border. We switched seats, bumbled our way through customs and lit out for Winnipeg. City limits with twenty-five minutes to go. Rush hour traffic. Stoplights everywhere. All the sonsabitches red. Our map drawn on the back of a cereal box in crayon. Somehow we found the place at 4:29. On the nose. I rushed to the door. Locked. Frickin' locked. I'd have beaten on the door but was afraid of breaking a nail.  Slump-shouldered, despondent, lost, I stood there. A truck door opened behind me. The ring of jack boots on the pavement. A deep timbered voice says, "One side Yankee Doodle. Let me show you how a real man, a Canadian man, knocks on a locked door." The building shook.
     His wife worked inside. She was more than happy to bail out a couple of foreigners and turn our currency into maps. We needed three, she had two. A minute of rousting and she found what the missing map. Had to do an over scale copy of a Burntwood Lake prototype. Thank you ma'am. Walking out, we had everything but a two mile section of the File. If the edge of the world or stretch of rapids called 'The Cadaver' wasn't missed, we were gold. Roads were empty by then. Went across the street to Wendy's and leisurely drove four hundred, seventy-five miles up the road to Snow Lake.
  
                                       Emil Again

     Once in a while Markie writes a paragraph even I'd read. Then he goes and edits it out. Good or not? You be the judge:
       No doubt I asked at the front counter if the Wendy's hamburger patties in Canada were square just like the one's in the real world. I can't claim to know anyone else's thoughts but possibly, more likely probably, the young lady behind the counter thought to herself, 'What an idiot. If I ever have children I swear they're not going to end up like that (eh)'. The twig is bent and somewhere down the road, maybe two or three generations, a grandson or great-grandson sits with a high powered fusion rifle at the top of a tall building in Windsor, Ontario. He fires a badly aimed shot into Detroit where it strikes the last remaining copy of Mule Skinner Blues, by the Fendermen. Thus making the world a slightly better place.
     Wordy as all get out. But the gist is interesting. Later on he writes that peeing outdoors ought to be in The Bill of Rights. In my book, that's a fine mind at work. Just needs to put a clamp on the ego and crisp up the action. Heck, it's a fishin' story ain't it? He's gettin' better. But may not live long enough to make it. By the by. About fifty years ago he thought the Mule Skinner Blues was up there with Mozart. If you ain't heard it, check it out. But don't go and write me if you think it stinks.

     Thankfully the Friday night sobriety road block was well and good. Had those five minutes blocked out on the schedule. Didn't want to screw things up. And just to the north sat our new last gasp gas stop at Grand Rapids. Seemed like The Place to be on the west shore of Lake Winnipeg. She were a jumpin', inside and out. A peek at the big lake made the canoe shudder. Me too. Then it was all new country. Rolling hills, lake views. Felt like we were rising out of an ancient sea bed. Long before Snow lake the sun went down. We turned into a moving wedge of light cutting through solid black. No traffic whatsoever for two hundred miles. Had the feeling we'd come up over a rise and broadside a wooly mammoth. Needed a periscope to see over the hills. Felt that way until we rolled into Snow Lake around eleven-thirty.
     My scribbled directions failed us immediately. Looking for a log sided building down the hill next to two churches. Found the gold mine. Toured the town. Twice. We were the only thing moving. Town closed 'til Saturday morning. A lucky wrong turn did it. Found the key. Read the note. Made a call to the owners. They were out partying somewhere. Their son paid us a visit instead. Got the low down on the gravel right-of-way. And all the sordid hearsay concerning the Grass River Lodge. Went outside. Had a last smoke and watched the Northern Lights. Nine degrees farther north.

Learning Curve '02 - Outbound

     Time to pack it up and go. Our buddy, the wind, came calling to pass the time of day. Yummy Ramen noodles for breakfast. Better than nothing. But not much. Not a lot of weight left in the food pack. Al brewed and I packed.
     Shooting straight for the portage was not an option. Would have been mostly broadside all the way. We had to tack up lake 'til halfway across.  In a break between gusts we spun it on a dime. Yee haw! For the next mile it was Katy-bar-the-door downwind. The lodge boats were doing their obligatory piking as we shot by with a brief exchange of waves. Shoulda been there last night boys.

     The portage was a simple grind it out affair on another warm, sunny day. Having removed and digested thirty pounds from the food pack helped. But it was still five trips over each portage and we were in the worn down phase of our trip. Two weeks in the boonies does that to me. Fact of life.

Rear View of Incompetent Yoke Builder

     Eventually we reached the last hundred rods with the canoe. My turn. The balance and expertise of throwing a canoe on my shoulders is a small thrill. A flip and we were off. Less than five rods later I heard a sharp crack and was head whacked by the boat. I thought a large branch had fallen on me. Kept asking Allan, "What happened?" He kept saying, "The yoke broke." But I wouldn't believe him. Not my yoke. No way. Then I put the boat down. Crap. No doubt the broken yoke would have added some unexpected fun to the Four Mile Portage. Not to mention the wind we were dealing with and it's effect on Reed Lake. Nothing to do but grab an end and finish the carry.

     By the time we reached Elbow I'd forgotten about the wind. But it hadn't forgotten about us. Still SSW and a quartering, stiff head wind. Still sucked. I'd have spit in it's face but it would have spit right back in mine. The first hundred yards was okay. Then it hit us and it was foot at a time progress for an hour and a half. A small chain of islands led us to the land of screaming ravens once again. Mid afternoon and we were done for the day. We'd burned off our noodles a few hours earlier and were draggin' butt.

     The photo looks like this: In a row, dumped one after the other are the boots he wore on the portage, the socks he wore in the boots, the bottom legs of his zip off pants, Allan laying on a flat rock with life jacket for a pillow and behind him, the whitecaps on Elbow scooting passed. Windbound nap time after six hours of humpin' and pumpin'. Thirty-six miles between us and the access. But there were delusions of making it to the access in one day skipping along out there across the tops of those white horses. Eat. Get a long night's sleep. And all the way home tomorrow. No sweat. A tailwind and ten hours would do it for sure. However, at the moment I couldn't get off my ass.
     Rummaging through the food pack, joy of joys, I rediscovered a treasure. Uncle Ben's rice and a can of chili. Basic Training food at it's finest. Sounded great to me. Turned out I'd forgotten the quality of Army cookin'. Good thing we were hungry. After dishes we checked the TV listings. Nothing worth staying up for so we turned in around 8:30. My mind was still churning over an early start and a long paddle.
     My ears never slept that night. Neither did the wind. Since all winds sound alike, maybe it was shifting. Yeah, shifting. Go with that. Dreams of tailwinds and flying into the access on a unicorn. My dreams, my choice of subject.
     Noodles for breakfast again. Had to eat something. But noodles? They sucked up most of our water supply and the only place to dip more was still running whitecaps. Yup, headwind. Had I a brain in my head any idea of making the access while bucking the wind would have vanished. But I hadn't and it didn't. Don't know if anyone else thinks like me. Continually giving an unrealistic spin on life. Pie in the sky and planning on a miracle. Not a big miracle. No loaves and fishes. Just a little one. Like the functioning of the planet changing it's direction for a day so our paddle would be a smooth cruise. I used to tell people I had this fantasy of waking up one morning to find myself on a yacht on the French Riviera. I'd look around, ring for my man and tell him, "I just had the strangest dream." Maybe I'm exaggerating but I do occasionally have overblown expectations. Like on holidays and odd numbered Thursdays.
     Outside of nearly ramming the only reef rock in a large bay and bucking the wind for a few hours, Elbow was no problem at all. I swear the rock appeared out of nowhere. For all I know it was gone the moment we passed by. Probably hoisted by the ghost fish. The morning mostly shot, we found ourselves at the trestle. Figured Al must have been hungry when he crunched up a pack of noodles and ate them dry. It was there we took our annual one arm photo. Never much of a shot but they always captured the moment. Small piece of who we once were.

Bear or Black Pig?

     Those last three carries were thankfully only triples. Double packed the first time over and then the canoe with loose stuff. The chute. I'd been dreading it for eleven days. Maybe it was the beaver dam on Claw that lowered the river level enough to bring it about. And then the opening of the dam erased the feared chute. But it was gone. Completely gone. Al said it was no different than when we paddled up. Ah, what the heck did he know?
     Once below the last rapids it was sixteen miles of clear sailing to the access. Only thing that could have slowed us down was the dead on headwind. And it was a honker. Crept by a playground of otters, one fisherman and a single swimming bear. The bear seemed to be on its way to our first campsite. Figuring the man in the boat was camping there, we crowded the bear off the river. Passing camp we saw the rickety table spread with food. Lunchtime for Yogi. 'Spose we could have stopped and packed it all up. But the headwind said to forget about it. Besides, the more we packed up, the more the bear would have torn up.
     Another hour brought us to a bend in the river. At last we were somewhat tucked under the storm. A mile later we saw the end of our day. Iskwasum was an angry sea my friend. Totally impossible. Stampede of white horses. We found a shore lunch spot, landed and hunkered down for the night. Allan made dinner while I set up the tent. Fine line between free standing and airborne. Mac and cheese for supper. Maybe better than nothing. Maybe not. We were burnt, fried, kaput, dragged out and were in the bags at 6:30. Been on the water and trail for ten hours and had only done twenty-four miles. Slept like the dead.
     We rose under a black and blue sky at 4:30. Clearing sky approaching from the north. End of the earth overcast to the south. Above us the dividing line. But no wind! Calm and a dozen miles to go. We could already taste the brew of Winnipeg.
     Once we were on the lake the sunrise exploded green against the spruces to our south. Good weather, no hurry. We stopped and watched the show. The cruise down Iskwasum was a pleasure tinged with fear that another blow was right around the corner. Turned out it wasn't. We took our last smoke break surrounded by cattails where the river left the lake. No matter the weather of the last two days, I wasn't ready for this trip to be over. Another longed for journey down the tubes. Memories are fine but making them is so much better. Seems there's never enough time for stuff like this until you're retired and then the body can't do it any more. You betcha it's all ass backwards.
     The access looked like it could have been a walleye tournament. Twenty boats lined up on shore with a few thousands horses waiting for the starting gun so's they go off on a meat hunt. Good luck to each of them. Hope all the 'don't have a clooo boys' fill their stringers. Ah, the arrogance of canoemen. At least this one.
     Load the Jeeped. Headed to Winnipeg. Ate and slept. Crossing the border was ten minutes of interrogation. The young official at the border was much more interested in the canoe than any illegal activities on our part. Wanted to know all the specs and where to get one. That's the kind of questioning I can live with.

Learning Curve '02 - Claw lake

     Tuesday. We were as ready as could be. In a kind of don't think about it, just do it, way. At least it was a warm, sunny morning. Good day to work up a sweat. Allan, of course, was in an upbeat mood. Assured me it was gonna be fine. Like he had the slightest clue about the ordeal we were paddling toward. Poorly buried memories of monsoon in the Mekong River Delta tinged my view. Water, mud and heat. Everywhere. Dressed wrong and sixty pounds on our backs. One time it took six hours to cover ten clicks. Feet swelled like soccer balls. Toes pointed straight up. I mentally drifted on and off Claw Bay as we approached the beaver dam.

     But what's that? Over on the left. A couple of fishing boats snubbed into shore. And no one around. Must have gone somewhere. Looking for morels? Too early for blueberries. Claw Lake maybe? Yup, had to be Claw. Nah, that was too good to be true. My inbred Minnesota sense of balance wouldn't let me believe what I was seeing until I had proof. Put my fingers in the wound, let me feel the pain.

     We hung a sharp left and landed. Walked ten rods uphill. Looked down a ten foot wide, grass floored avenue through a grove of mature aspen. Like a portage for Louis XVI to enjoy from his Landau's window. Could this be our piece of cake? Would we be allowed to eat it? Went back for a load and set off.
     The first hundred rods was a romp. A stroll. By then I began to wonder where the stream was. We must have passed the delta. What was going on? Twenty rods around a bend gave us our answer. A bog separated us from the stream. And a quarter mile ahead sat the real rapids. Numerous seeps and tiny drainages dotted the hummocky swamp. Through it snaked a faint trail. Thankfully, jackstraws of deadfall added to the charm. Guess we were out of romp. We dropped our load. All of a sudden the pack had gotten a whole lot heavier. Odd how gravity can do that. Head scratching time. Though what was coming didn't look like fun, it still beat the crawl I'd been anticipating. Nothing to do but go back for more stuff.
     Sooo, for the next ninety minutes we worked up a sweat. Our sweat worked up a sweat. Never thought the canoe, our lightweight kevlar, would have been the toughest part of the carry. Through the bog, we each took an end. Embarrassing. The bugger was too long. Not something real men would do. Jeez, give us a break. The corners were too tight. The deadfall jumble badly placed. Had to inch around the corners and lift it over the piles. Finally, the last ten rods was through a thicket and up a steep hill. Pardon my whining.
     Centre Lake was a spiffy five minute crossing. Two boats and an ice shelf at the landing. Our invisible guides still somewhere ahead. The second portage a bit tougher and longer than the first. More jumble, bog and thicket. Same canoe drill. And mysteriously, the closer we got to Claw, the wetter the ground. Finally, standing water. On the way Al made a wrong turn. Ended up in a flooded meadow. Somehow he missed a bleach bottle trail marker (Kids these days. Don't have a clue about how the Voyageurs always marked their portages with polyethylene containers. Long lasting and easily seen). Nothing about the country we'd been through 'til now said high water. But somehow, Claw was in flood.
     Yup, it was another hot, sweatin', hummock jumpin', quintuple carry. Took us four hours to do the five trips over both portages, finally covering twenty-five hundred rods. Not exactly the Four Mile Portage but still a serious hump for us city boys.
     The trail ended in a grove of flooded trees. Call it another thicket. On the last trip over we passed our guiding party. Four men from the Midwest staying at the Elbow Lake Lodge. Guess they'd've been doing what we were but preferred sleeping indoors. Each morning they loaded lunch and gear into frame packs. Headed to Claw via motor boat. It took three sets of boats each way but they ended up with a remote walleye heaven to themselves. Almost. Hadn't been the trophy year they'd come to expect. Nothing much over six pounds. Allan and I each shed a tear for them. Again we were in the mystery that was Grass River Park. Motor accessible but much less traffic than the BWCA. That is, if you were willing to put in the miles. Blue collar paradise.

     Once in the water we hand pushed and pulled our zig-zag way through the thicket. Then up a short stretch of swampy river complete with one story, plywood trapper's shack on the shore. A bit of crap in a pristine land. Once on Claw, Al spotted our campsite from a half mile away. Biggest island on the lake. Also had the only stand of mature trees for miles. Again the landing shelf seemed designed for a fishing boat. But with water levels high, who could tell what the original intent was?
     On shore I saw no possible place to camp, for the face of the island sharply rose thirty feet in elevation. So I rummaged around. Turned over rocks. Looked under bushes. No campsite there. Hmm. Quite a mystery. Of course Al, lacking my thoroughness, simply climbed the hill and called down, "It's up here." And we were home for eight days. What a site. Moss for tent, slap-dash filleting table, and, tah-dah!, a thermometer. Can't tell you how many times I'd said, "This would be a perfect campsite if it only had a thermometer nailed to a tree." Now when we were warm or cold, we'd know exactly to what degree. Sigh of relief. Our view was for miles. A half dozen prime shore fishing spots. Everything but a view of virgin timber. Unless we looked up. Had I the chance, I'd camp there again anytime. No questions asked. The edge of the hill, a truly fine spot to eat our meals. In the panorama photo above my lure building desk, Allan sits overlooking our temporary world. A small acme in my quiet life.
     By day four of the trip we'd gone into our high cholesterol breakfast phase. Sausages, toast and eggs. Hashbrowns and eggs. French toast and sausages. Eggs, sausages and eggs. Sounds like a Monty Python routine. Two dozen eggs, phht, gone in four meals. Then came several rounds of spaghetti. Emeril's Kicked Up Tomato and his Roasted Peppers. Lotsa noodles. Always ate it fast before it cooled off. Following the first spaghetti meal Allan wandered off, trowel in hand. A minute later a resounding Bam! echoed from the woods. Funny man. Thank you Emeril. All good stuff. Leave the freeze dried at home. Maybe take one along as a backup. They're edible but only taste good if you're really hungry. I mean really hungry.

The Good Life on Claw lake

     We learned a lot that first night on Claw. Mostly where the fish weren't. Spent a lot of time scratching my head again. We threw lures to a lot of likely spots. Weren't skunked but that's about it. I blamed it on the flooded lake. Most shoreline trees stood in the water. Why so, still remained a mystery. Now in our fifth Canadian trip, I liked to think I had it figured out. But each lake holds it's own secrets. Takes a bit to figure them out. But, what the heck, we were on new water and had all two thousand acres to ourselves. Forty miles from the road. They had to be somewhere. We'd find them sooner or later. For the moment we had plenty to eat. Plenty to read. And seven days left on Claw.

     Windbound on Wednesday. Wasn't a roar but out on the water we'd have been fighting the wind more than wetting a line. No fun. So we worked our five acres counter clockwise. I most often go that route on new water. Seems that's the way the world goes round in the Northern Hemisphere. Who am I to question the workings of the universe? Caught our share of pike and walleyes. One or two at a time. We brought a chair along. Sometimes I'd fish, sometimes read aloud. Our Elbow Lake friends returned. While they trolled, we'd fish and watch. They sure did reel in a lot of fish. When they'd pass by, we'd strike up a brief conversation. They had a hard time understanding why we were shore fishing. I ranted off on a detailed explanation of ratios, boat width/wave height. Had no effect on them. Saying I was chickenshit was readily accepted.
     The wind dropped enough that evening to head for what appeared the protected opposite shore. It wasn't. We threw a few spinners to more fish that weren't there. Midway back we bobbed in the waves and gathered water. Not exactly a thrilling day.
     Thursday's child told us all we needed to know about the lake. And the people. Our friends returned. As did two bright yellow float planes from the Grass River Lodge. Guess the sports were getting tired of two hundred buck a day ice skating. Lord A'mighty, looked like we had the cat bird seat on a four star lodge's wilderness fly-in lake. Again we were shore fishing but now had a new show to watch. The lodge boats had their routine set in stone. Fly in after a honkin' resort breakfast. Motor on down to the river's mouth. Hammer some big pike for a couple of hours. The guided fly-in was a hundred and a quarter per sport. The hoots and hollers were free. Done with the pike show, they'd head through a channel into Claw's western bay. There they'd anchor off a walleye honey hole. When boatin' those bad boys finally tuckered them out, the troupe headed to shore a few yards away. A rip snortin' fire would be built and the grill thrown on. Finally Pierre the Chow Chef would work his magic in lard, pickerel, beer batter, onions, spuds and beans. A couple of brews to wash it down and all was well in the boonies. The guides were thankful if the afternoon's breezes overpowered the apris-lunch breezes in the boat. Bye-bye ozone layer.
     We talked with a guide that afternoon. Up front sat a sulking sport, his time being wasted on local color (That be us. Imagine that, we were local color). The guides seemed to seek us out. For all they knew, we had a fair amount of area knowledge. They saw the canoe, our rods and easily picked up our time in the bush fragrance. We'd had twenty-four hours a day to explore the nooks and cranberries. They only had a few. Who knew? We might even turn them on to something new. Good men. Free with information. Never heard a word from the sport. At the time I thought the lodge's fly-in to Claw was something of a ruse. But it was a twenty minute flight and a good lake. The sports were getting their money's worth.
     The kindness of strangers. Not wanting to be left out, the Elbow lake men also pulled ashore that afternoon. Looked like we were gettin' to be the social hub of the wilderness. Yeah, we were still shore fishing. Everybody and their dog was boatin' tons of fish and we were shore fishing. But the wind seemed to be easing off. Like I'd said, the lodge men were outfishing us at least five to one. For sure, they were out in boats but we were casting the same water. And the way Allan could throw a spinner, they didn't have much on us. So, what was their secret?
     Schmoozing time in the woods. 'Bout then I was possessed by an evil demon. Asked for a favor no less. If you knew me, you'd know I don't do that. It's not really a matter of pride like the noble common folk of old. Mostly I don't think I'm worth someone going out of their way for me. An attitude that stems from the same place as growing up and figuring stuff out on my own. Doing without is easier for me than asking a favor. Anyhow, I offered the men twenty bucks to buy a six pack at the lodge and pack it in on Friday. Can't believe I did that. Even now. My face turns red every time it comes to mind.
     The man in front turned to the stern man. We could feel a silent agreement being struck. We're asked, "Do you have any marabou jigs?" We've got jigs, but none with marabou. He handed me three. And a small tub of about two dozen frozen minnows. Couldn't believe my eyes. The stern man opened the cooler. Reached in. Pulled out and handed us two Molson Canadians. Uff dah. "Make sure you pack out the empties." We said we would (and did).
     Turned out this was their last trip into Claw for the year. Been doing it for a couple of decades. With luck, they're still doing it. Bravo for them and all the people who enjoy and don't despoil the ground they walk and the water they fish. For those four men, it seemed as much a social experience as a fishing trip. Being with the right people in the right place makes life worth living. And catching a few huge walleyes along the way doesn't hurt.

     We watched them motor off. No doubt in our minds we were in for some fun. First off let's get on thing straight. I don't fish bait. But I'm not a total hard head. Sure fished it when I was a kid. Hooks were cheap. Worms were free so long as someone had a shovel. Nowadays I do fish plastic. Isn't that odd? Worms and minnows are about as natural as it gets. But plastic? C'mon. All by the by at the moment. But, since I did use plastic, there were slip bobbers and knots in the tackle bag. Guess there was nothin' left to do but rig up, crack open the brew and see what would happen. High life time.
     We took turns. Didn't want to waste a minute of our sinnin' time. Also stretched our free supply of minnows. Here's how it went. Set the knot at five feet. Tipped the jig with a minnow. Lobbed a gentle side arm cast. Maybe ten yards. The bobber would bob in the waves a couple of times. Immediately followed by an angled descent. When the bobber was out of sight, the hook was set. Simple math. Twenty-four minnows, twenty-three walleyes, fifteen to twenty inches per, half an hour's time, two Molsons, one great time. We kept a few for breakfast. I'm a sure-fired butcher when it comes to filleting. What I lose in meat, at least I don't gain in bones. We don't do breading. A little seasoning and fry 'em hot in a couple of butter pats.
     The minnows did it. Our wind spell was broken. For the next five days the lake calmed. The fishing? Like a wilderness lake. Al had been bugging me about the river's mouth for two days. River's mouth. River's mouth. Over and over. We could see it. Just couldn't get there. We paddled down on Thursday after supper just to shut him up. Big deal. So he catches big pike after big pike. Anybody could have done it. Maybe not me but most anybody else. I caught some. Al caught a lot. Nearly all were over thirty inches. A few close to forty. Almost a duplicate of our night on Elbow at the other end of the stream. Once in a while to break the monotony, he'd throw a walleye into the mix. What ya gonna do? The kid's a fish magnet. That's just the way it is. Maybe his hands smell like ciscoes.
     Friday we headed over to the western bay with the idea of paddling into Little Claw lake. They call it that 'cause it's hooked onto Claw and ain't as big. Or so I'm told. A bright, eighty degree day. The lake shallowed and the bottom smoothed out as we approached the connecting channel. Just didn't feel right. So we bagged it. For the better, I guess. The next year when we learned of the graded right-of-way, we also learned that Little Claw was truck and short portage accessible. Fly-in sport asks Snow Laker, "How'd you get here?" Local hoser sprouts big grin, "Drove. That's my truck over there, eh." If that'd happened to us, sure would have let the air out of our ballon.
     Fishing our way back on the far shore, the lake grew a lot more structure. The farther we went, the better the fishing. Then we found the walleye honey hole. Yup, right off a shore lunch spot. Exactly as advertised. Calm, cloudless, hot. Miserable walleye conditions. Should have told the fish. Don't know how many we caught. On spinners no less. Anyhow, we could have fed a small crowd but lacked loaves.
     We returned in the evening. Low light. Walleye time. Gonna hammer 'em by the dozens. But they weren't there. Nary a one. No doubt they were under contract with the Grass River Lodge. They'd already put in their two hours. Damned if they were going to punch the clock for a couple of poachers. A shame. Enslaved for profit.
     We meandered elsewhere. Never made it. Al got the bird's nest of a lifetime on the way. Not much of a highlight for a Canadian canoe trip. On the other hand, if you've been fishing and not had to deal with one then you ain't really been fishing. And if you're pitching spinners with a spinning reel, man you're just beggin' for it. My Uncle Emil claims the spinner was invented in France 'cause they have it in for Americans. Says it's a proven fact that no real fisherman from the States has ever traveled to Europe. Unless, of course, they were in uniform. Since the French chefs can't spit in a Yank fisherman's food, they invented the spinner blade to vex the hell out of them instead.
     Using braided line and a quality ball bearing snap swivel helps (we don't use leaders. Doesn't seem to make a difference with super lines). But sooner or later you won't notice that little loop hanging off the spool lip. Phttttttt. Sure as shootin'.
     The thing about a spinning reel bird's nest is that the line isn't knotted, it's only twisted. The knots will be self-inflicted from frustration. The easy removal method is a knife. Pulling the loops and untwisting the twists is hit and miss at it's best. But if you stick with it. And are gentle. You'll eventually work it out. Ask Allan. Forty-five minutes in a calm bay with the sun going down. He said he'd get 'er. And I was in no hurry to be anywhere. Surrounded by God's country. Who could complain?
     Skip ahead. Last night on the water. Wind up again. But since this was the last night on Claw and it wasn't raining, we weren't gonna waste it. We started by speed drifting a narrow cut bay. Half of us had a good time. I got to be a human drift sock while Allan caught walleyes. Not that I'm complaining. It's just that from the back seat it sucked to high heaven. One other choice came to mind on that north-south lake in a stiff south wind.
     Fish the river. The muddy bottomed, cattail-lined river. We got what we expected. The hammer-handles thanked us for moving on. Passed the portage. Off to see where this stream went. A block in, around a bend and we pulled ashore beside a ten foot waterfall, a beaver dam across the lip. With a yard wide hole in the middle. Light bulb time. Of course. The dam caused the lake to be in flood. Over the week water levels had dropped. Someone or something must have knocked a hole in it. But who? High School, punk, beaver hating vandals? Ah, the mysteries of wilderness life. Where were the Mounties when you needed them?

See. I wasn't Kidding.

     For sure, it was a pretty cool spot. And I almost never use the word 'cool'. The chute ripping through the dam was impressive. The shore was paved with feathers and fish bones. Most likely from different animals. Below, the river split and riffled it's way around a bend and into the forest. Rather be there than Times Square any day.

     The pool behind the dam wasn't much. Fifteen yards across. Thirty long. Of course Al couldn't leave it alone. Seemed pointless to me. Not to him. After a backhand flip he really had to crank it so the spinner wouldn't get sucked down the chute. Bam! Fish on. And a honker. Big, big pike. My turn and it was the same thing. I wasn't quite believing what I was seeing. It was too much like being four years old and thinking I could catch fish by dropping a line down the bathtub drain. Three more followed. All in the teens. Not fish in a bathtub but sure like fish in a barrel.
     Below the dam it was pretty in a babbling brook sense but not much for fishing. Oh yeah, I almost forgot, the punk caught a ten pounder (Disclaimer: All previous weights are approximations by experienced but amateur anglers. Any inaccuracy is unintentional. No fish were killed for the writing of this reminisce. Well, some were but we ate them 'cause they were yummy).
     Finally we headed back up the river toward camp. In the now calm of the river's mouth Al wanted a few more casts. Fine with me. I did boat control. Sat back and watched a Saturday morning fishing show. Except this was in real time. Catch, release. Catch release. Pike a cast for close to an hour. All big and the last one over forty inches.
     What do you say after having three fishing nights of a lifetime in one trip? What can you say? The numbers don't mean squat after a certain point. How much is enough? We were done. Sated. Thankful that it happened. Happy to have been together when it did.