Not Right II

     On Friday evening the Deans and I headed for a honey hole figuring Jake would be happier with fish on the line than having to be content with the thrill of birdsong across the water.  As for type of fish Jake wanted bass.  Don't know if he's familiar with the other fishes but he does know bass.  There are several sure fire lakes in the area that always produce.  No problem.  Our only concern was between quantity and quality.  Though R. Dean and I feared for the boy's life, we went for quality.  Like I said, Jake's an eight year old string bean.  Couple that with a kid's innate desire to never let loose of the fish of a lifetime, we figured a five pound bass would no doubt pull him overboard.  R. Dean said he'd grab the boy should anything like that happen.  Seeing as how I was out of duct tape to lash Jake to his seat, that was fine with me.
     You know you're a full blood city boy when you make a wrong turn trying to find a lake you've been to but weeks before.  Could've sworn it was the nine hundred, thirteenth birch tree up the track.  In my defense it was an entirely new wrong turn.  One more road I'd never been down before.  Slightly more educated error.  Eventually we made it and had the water to ourselves for four hours.  Glassed out water even.
     I don't trust boat motors, even electric trolling ones.  Two things can go wrong with the latter, the motor and the battery.  Maybe there's a third and I won't know what that is until it inevitably goes kaput.  Back at the cabin I'd trickle charged the battery till the meter said it was full.  Then hooked it up to the motor and both worked.  In my mind that proved nothing.
     Back at the cabin we were so excited about leaving Lois had to run out to let us know we hadn't raised the wheel stand the trailer tongue rests on.  Oops.  Nothing was broken except the embarrassed smile across my face.
     At the boat access we slid seamlessly into boner number two by leaving the truck and trailer in the throat of the boat launch.  Oops.  A quick return and all was well.  Ahh, city boys in the woods.
     Dog Days of August.  Yup, the fishing can be slow in Minnesota.  Usually bass like warm water so we figured we'd do okay.  We didn't.  Come evening we'd had a couple on the line but that was about it.  Not the day J. Dean was hoping for.
     However, there was a reprieve in the form of bluegills.  Lots of bluegills with a few of them pushing a pound.  The Saturday morning fishing show pros call them bull bluegills with real shoulders.  That's a bit of hogwash but it is true a ten inch sunnie feels like a two pound bass on the line.  Heavy duty enough to put a smile on an eight year old's face.  A few entries ago I'd written there hadn't been a bluegill ever netted by the DNR in these waters.  Times change.  Maybe the stork was confused and delivered the baby sunnies to the wrong lake.  Whatever the reason, we had a fine time.

Canoe Paddle II

     Things don't always go as planned.  Hah, that's sure an understatement.  Would've helped if I'd had a pattern before sawing and glueing up the stock.  But I didn't and life is too short to wait, so I did what I do best, I guessed.  My first choice for paddle design couldn't be made.  So it's choice number two and that's okay.  If this one works out another can be made to match the beavertail I really wanted.  If that one works out, number three will be an ottertail.
     Yesterday I traced and sawed the rough shape.  Oddly enough the paddle looks as it should.  Still a club but more streamlined.  Easier to get a solid swing should any ETs invade my garage.
     I've no more than a general idea of where to go from there.  No two methods I've looked up carve paddles the same way.  Same goes for sealing the finished product, varnish, oil and how to apply them.  Guess I'll have to do it the old fashioned way, try something and see if it works.  If it doesn't I'll let you know.  I've been known to screw up once in a while and expect I'm not done.
     One of the videos I watched used an industrial band saw to shape the paddle.  Sure worked slick.  I do have a band saw but it's a few horsepower short of industrial.  Still considered using it even though I knew the saw wasn't up to clawing through an inch and a half thick ash slab.  Turned out a little saber saw did the trick.  Even better when I installed a new blade.  Thank God I had a clamp to hold the blank in place.  Two of them came with my body.  I call them knees.  Better than nothing even though the vibration from the saw nearly jarred the fillings out of my molars.
     Several of the carvers used a spoke shave for the handle and even the blade.  The shave has a long history behind it.  Works like a plane, looks like a tiny draw knife.  Draws through soft wood like a knife on warm butter.  Would it work on ash?  A moot point unless I want to order one on line.  The man at a local big box tool store didn't know what one was.  Instead I grabbed a surform.  Works something like a coarse file with itty-bitty knife edges to cut through the wood.  The idea is to remove all that's not the paddle and leave all that's knuckle and finger.  Don't want to stain perfectly good ash.

Grandpa's Not Always Right

     Lois and I just arrived home from six days up north.  While there our daughter and family spent three days.  Annie hasn't been there for seven years and her daughter Mollie was seeing the woods for the first time.  Also made friends with her first wood tick.  Those things happen.  Wish the little buggers didn't make themselves at home on a six year old or anyone for that matter.  At least it wasn't a deer tick.
     Back in June my son-in-law Ryan, one of the Deans, said he and Jakob Dean would come up north in August for a couple of day's fishing.  Not the best time of year but the bugs would be down and that's always a good thing.  Then, a couple of weeks ago the plan changed.  That the entire troupe would be coming was exciting.  Well, as exciting as it gets for me these days.  Yes, it was a good time.
     But seeing as how this is a fishing blog I suppose I should write about our time on the water.  Yes we did get on the water a couple of times.  If you've been reading my entries you know I'm an avid canoe man.  By avid I mean I enjoy the heck out of it but am straight line challenged.  Maybe in the next life I'll get good at J-stroking.  This time the canoes were left in the shed.
     J. Dean is an eight year old sprout, slim as a reed and full of vinegar.  I'd be more than willing to have him in the bow seat of the canoe any day but fear his parent's wrath should he fall overboard.  Not having learned the ins and outs of how to correct the usual things that go wrong while fishing, Jake also needs a little TLC that can't be provided from the back seat of a canoe.  Reason enough to use my jon boat and electric trolling motor.
     His Dad had him set up with two rods.  Decent rods, freshly spooled at an outdoor shop.  You'd think the people behind the counter would know how to wind a spool.  Most do but some aren't much more than warm bodies who don't know when a spool is full.  Lucky for Jake one of his spools knew it had been overfed and vomited twenty excess yards in hairball fashion.  Fatherly love stepped up to the plate and righted the wrong.  Twenty minutes of no fishing for R. Dean.  Those kind of things happen all the time to kids and probably cloud their idea of what fishing is like.
     I recall similar problems when I was drowning the worms of my childhood.  Part of the problem was ignorance, part crappy, hand-me-down gear and my personal favorite, lack of money. But none of that kept me from having a good time when near water though little was caught.  Seems J. Dean feels the same way.  Even when the bird's nests were flying he was upbeat.
     Like a good younger sister Mollie also wanted to go fishing.  Four in the jon boat would have been a crowd.  Turned out it wasn't since Mollie was more than happy to do her fishing from a dock.  No fish were caught but she didn't seem to much care.  Watching the resident dock sunnies lip and dash with her plastic tipped jig seemed as fascinating for her as for any kid.  Good time on a perfect evening.

Canoe Paddle I

     Years ago I made a canoe paddle out of an ash board left over from cabin building.  Good wood, bad paddle.  It was a club, pure and simple.  Didn't give it enough thought, research or time.  The poor paddle never had a chance.  Since then it has evolved into a decoration above the shed doors up north.  Good spot for it.
     That the first one didn't work out hasn't stopped me from considering a second one, also from ash. So that's why I was up in the garage rafters yesterday rummaging through leftover boards.  I knew there were some old ash boards up there.  From down below both appeared straight grained and true.  I was wrong.  The grain was fine but both boards looked like they were halfway through a left hand turn and stopped by heavy traffic.  Guess things happen over three decades.
     Lucky for me I'm a scrounger.  Hate to part with a buck or a board if I don't have to.  The wood also carries some meaning in my life.  If I make a paddle, and I will, it'll be from those boards.  The trees they were sawn from were felled by a good friend of mine who passed away a few years ago.  Without his help and a few of his tools the boards would never have come to be.  It'd be nice to have a little bit of his labor in my hands once in a while particularly when the paddle is in places he'd have enjoyed.
     Friday July 25:  This morning I ripped the boards into inch and a quarter strips.  Two five footers for the handle, eight two footers for the blade and grip.  The paddle will be laminated from necessity and with a bonus of strength.  Another friend of mine said I make little boards out of big boards then put them back together in a different shape.  As yet I don't know what the paddle style will be but it will look like something.  Maybe another club.  Hope not.
     Saturday July 26:  The glue has been applied and some of the clamping done.  The two side pieces of the blade are individually clamped as is the shaft.  When the glue dries all three pieces will be joined and a couple of small pieces added to the top of the shaft where the grip will eventually be.  I finally bit the bullet and went for Gorilla Glue since it's waterproof.  Don't want the paddle coming apart out in the boonies.  Doubt I'd get stranded but it sure would be embarrassing.  Tomorrow I'll set the result aside till I bring a beavertail paddle home from the cabin.  The beavertail will serve as a template to trace out the new paddle.
     Evening:  All the wood is glued and clamped.  At the moment she's a real club.  Or maybe a heavy duty pizza paddle.
     Sunday July 27:  No paddle work today.  Happily there's a canoe rack needs building.  I'd had a homemade one on my Jeep.  It was spiffy.  Worked fine at speeds up to eighty miles per hour.  The new rack will be similar but this time made from oak.  The boards came from the same source as the paddle ash.  They'd been sitting in the garage rafters for all of the twenty-seven years we've lived in this house.  Still rough sawn and dirty.  Each had been odd man out at the saw mill and weren't thick enough to plane to a smooth three quarters of an inch.  Pulled them down, ripped them at an inch and a half and hand planed them smooth.  They'll be glued in pairs and joined to form a strong and attractive frame.  At least I hope that's the way it'll work out.
     Honestly, I was hoping this post wouldn't be as dull as it is.  Could be preparation isn't as enjoyable in the reading as it is in the doing.  Don't know about you but I'm having a good time.
     That I now have a September BWCA trip in the offing came as a surprise.  And added to my life.  The canoe trip and El Dean's big backside have given me new life and new projects.  Things to repair and prepare.  Not fading away as yet.
     I've even started to connive a possible Canada trip.  Of course it's only in my mind at the moment.  Over in The Uncle Emil Tales I wrote of a fictitious trip he and I took to an unnamed lake.  Our adventure never actually happened but the lake we travelled to is there, at least it is on the map.  In 2009 my son Allan and I crapped out on finding a way into the lake.  Ten yards of colorful tape instead of the hundred yards I thought I had did us in.  A real woodsman could have made it by simply using blazes and natural markers.  Truth is, the mile and a half bushwhack had me a little nervous.  I wrote the Uncle Emil story figuring the only way I'd make it to the unnamed lake was in my mind.  Fiction imitating life.  I'd like to turn that around.
     At the moment I'm off to the cabin with hopes of finding writing material.

Hope Springs (along with potential injury)

     A couple of days ago I e-mailed my nephew Brian with the idea of a near future fishing trip.  These days I have to push myself to include others in my plans.  As I've gotten older it's become easier to not ask others and then whine about having to fish alone.  Brian and I had done earlier trips about twenty years ago and one last year.  Of the three early ones, two came off.  The second of the three was shut down when his four year old son broke his arm in a shopping accident.  The first involved an all day effort to find a camping spot.  The last was the infamous frozen out trip of '97.  All three had their problems but the first was definitely okay.
     In the e-mail I offered an anytime, anywhere proposition to include him saying no.  As it turned out he said yes and thought the BWCA sounded great.  Holey-moley.  Could it be?  I'm hoping.  And a little pumped.

Itching To Do Repairs

     A few entries back I'd mentioned a broken aluminum canoe mount.  Who can say for sure what caused a metal bar to snap?  But snap it did.  I'll leave it at that.  Figuring some kind of repair would be an improvement over using a five gallon bucket to sit on, even if it was only cosmetic,  I ripped down a few scraps of straight grained ash for a new frame.  The ash was left over from paneling and flooring the cabin back in the mid-80s.  Guess it was about as dry and ready as it was going to get.
     The tough part of the job was drilling out the old aluminum pipe frame.  By and large it went slowly and as well as could be expected when whacked at by an amateur.  No blood was spilled and no holes inadvertently punched in the side of the canoe.
     This stage was to be done at the cabin and required all of the tools to do the job right to be brought from home.  Done enough jury rigged affairs in the past to know good enough is sometimes not good enough.  Once in a while it's a pleasure to do a job not only adequately but esthetically pleasing.
      I'd ripped more than enough one by ones to cover any mistakes I might make.  Good thing I did.  Enough said.  All pieces were cut to size and drilled to fit.
     Having the patience to do the job right had a lot to do with having enough mosquito repellant to keep the beasts at bay.  Yeah, she's been a fertile year up north.  Oddly enough the predicted swarm of wood and deer ticks hasn't happened.  But the skeeters are a terror.  To do the job I'd mounted the canoe on saw horses, slathered myself down and fogged around the boat.  Not very organic but it more or less did the trick.
     Long story short, the frame sits at home in the garage with three coats of penetrating varnish rubbed into it.  A few more ought to do it.
     I'm not sure if the ash frame will be as strong as the aluminum one.  Perhaps El Dean and I will go with the Alumacraft next year.  It's not as sleek as the Wenonah but the front seat is industrially strong.

?

     The zip isn't what it once was.  Hasn't been for a few years now.  What if my zest for fishing continues to decline?  Where does that leave me?  Been retired for close to five years and never figured this would happen.  I do enjoy my time on the water but not down here in the cities as much as up north.  All the gear stands ready but I'm not.  Seems like too much work to travel four blocks to water much less the trek to the north woods.  A ten foot, eight weight fly rod is now rigged as a spinning rod.  Has been for two weeks and I still have no idea if it will work.
     Don't want to think too deeply about it.  Thinking and fishing don't seem to go together.  A fish in the dark below the waves is more an emotional thing for me.  It speaks to me so long as my brain doesn't get in the way.  Guess I'm waiting for a little rekindling of zing.