Old Man's Back Strikes Again

     Yesterday I was sitting in a chair checking out my reels when my back spasmed and went south in a hurry—third time in the last six months. It could be the way I'm built, the abuse I've put my body through over the decades or maybe even the result of Lyme disease. Most likely I'm simply wearing out. It didn't take but a few minutes to say bye-bye canoe trip. When I woke this morning I was in a serious funk about reaching the end of my wilderness road.
     However, I kept hitting my head against the 'never again' wall till a couple of options spilled from my brain. Spoke with Brian and we agreed there'd be no more long portages in our future. That led us to the possibility of paddling three miles farther north on Trout Lake to a navigable creek that'd take us to Pine Lake and it's wonderful fishing. Or—plan B—head to another entry point and take the Moose River south into Big Moose Lake and it's wonderful fishing. Both routes call for only a couple of short carries unless the beavers have been busy.
     Crossing big Lake Vermilion to reach the Trout Lake portage had me concerned from the get-go. If the wind was up we'd be sitting on the shore watching the waves roll by. The solution was to also reserve the entry to Big Moose. If the forecast calls for wind we'll head up the Moose River. If not, we'll cross Vermilion. Anyhow, we now have two permits for the same day.

Not Yet Too Old (I Think)

     I turned seventy-two last March, guess that makes me half gross. I'd put any kind of canoe trip off in a corner of my brain where it wouldn't do me any harm. That's called wisdom. Then about a week ago, while my wisdom was taking a nap, the possibility of a Boundary Waters trip paddled forward and made itself at home.

     Honestly, over the last year or two I'd mentally mapped out and researched a fistful of possibilities that ranged all the way to renting a boat and motor for a week in Voyageurs National Park. Also another couple of boat-in and fly-in trips over the border. If you want to catch big pike and can come up with seven grand for four people, I'll let you in on a primo trip. However, there are two affordable boat-ins I think I'll keep to myself. 

     Anyhow, I asked Lois if she was okay with me doing another canoe trip and she only raised one skeptical eyebrow. Ten minutes later I texted my nephew Brian—he was my only possibility—partly hoping he'd be too busy and would say no. Didn't work out that way. Nope, seems he'd been thinking along the same lines and recalling the good times we'd had in the backwoods. 

     At the moment we have a permit reserved for June 26. For a change we're heading out of Ely toward a back corner of the Boundary Waters. Fishing's supposed to be pretty good, the lakes quiet and the portages look to be doable for a man with more wrinkles than sense. Normally, I wouldn't give late June a consideration but spring's been a little slow up near the Canadian border. Hopefully the fish will be ready for us and the bugs won't be too bad.

Tales from Deadman Lake

     The above title and Between Thought and the Treetops are available at Lulu.com

Life is Short

     Had a northwest Manitoba fishing trip set up for this summer with my grandson Jakob, son-in-law Ryan and his dad Larry. Ryan and Larry are pike fisherman to the bone, so is Jakob but he doesn't know it yet—his genes allow him no choice. I was excited, they're excited, even Steve Japp who runs the one-man Elbow Lake Lodge was excited. Steve's read my first two books and he feels an affinity with my fictitious Uncle Emil. Good man.

     Anyhow, about two months ago Larry was diagnosed with terminal brain cancer and given a year to live. Sure not something anyone wants to hear. To date he's gone though surgery, chemo and radiation. He's done it well but Larry's always been that kind of man. If you've read my postings you're probably familiar with him and his days in the back seat of a canoe putting Ryan onto hordes of bass and pike.

     If Larry hasn't given up hope and is sound of body, somehow or other we'll put another trip together. Won't be an expedition but there are several classic Minnesota border lakes that will have something available for us. Ryan's said he'd like to get one last shot at boat time with his dad. So would I.

     I guess there's always another year till there isn't.

Back Again—For the moment

     Been awhile. Since the last entry I've organized and published two books. The second, Tales from Deadman Lake, covers the days from building the cabin through fishing trips in the area. She's not art but has a few good moments and a laugh or two.

     More than that side trip, I've been depressed by Allan and my last trip. We tried something new and it didn't pan out. The fishing was okay but not what I was hoping for. We caught our share of walleyes but most came from trolling with jigs and twister tails. Not my cup of tea. 'Course I don't drink tea so maybe that was the problem? 

     We did do several double-portage trips to a remote lake—that's funny; remote; hell we were on a fly-in lake, how much more remote do you need to get—and found better fishing. But like every lake on the planet, they weren't everywhere. And when were found them they didn't seem to like it any way besides a trolled jig and twister tail. So call it, we came, we fished, did okay and flew out.

     Anyhow, I'm putting the finishing touches on a book covering Allan and my canoe days in the Boundary Waters and Manitoba to include hand-drawn maps and photos. Could be a sign of old age that I'm deeper into remembering, way deeper, than doing. 

Learning the Water

     This is not an easy trip to describe. More than anything disappointment ruled. Yeah, the fishing was okay, even better than good by Minnesota standards, but sure not what I'd been hoping for. It could've been we were simply on water that'd been worked a lot over the years. The lakes of the far north aren't fertile in the least, so just maybe forty or more years had put a strain on the water. Could also be Allan and I aren't the hot-shot fisherman we'd thought we were. Whatever the reason, tIt's a guessing game pure and simple. Try this, try that, figure out what works but even then you're not sure if you're missing the boat. Those things happen when you're on new water. 

     Could also be we were out for the wrong fish. A perfect trip for us would've been a handful of pike running forty inches or more and enough walleyes to say we caught a few. Said it and wrote it many times, the two of us are pike fishermen to the bone. As it was, we were on walleye water. Oh yeah, we caught our share as the old time meat hunters used to say. For sure the numbers added up but none were real wall hangers. Okay, that's enough for pissing and moaning. Time to get back to the details.

     Once Hugh flew off at 8:30 we stood at the pinnacle of our trip; we were loading our gear into the cabin with the Canadian boonies right outside the door and waiting for us to come out and play. Brought back memories of Larry Gogal roaring off from Dow Lake in northwest Manitoba and leaving us to the silence of the forest. Only this time we weren't going to paddle off. Nope, we had us a roof over our heads instead of a tent. I honestly can't say which was better. However, having a cabin sure made it feel like we were cheating. Not traveling by the seat of our pants might've been a sign that wisdom had finally entered my life though I doubted it. Wisdom is a fickled thing.
     By 10:00 we were offloaded and ready to hit the way. I'd like to say I was excited but the boat motor hooked to the back of our boat had me a little nervous. Nervous hell, I was borderline terrified. Could be the reason I'd been a canoe man had to do with paddles never failing to start. For a brief time we'd had a boat and motor at the cabin and it'd been a nightmare pain in the ass and black hole for money. Before leaving home I'd YouTubed a video (Outboards for Dummies) on how to operate a 9.9 Mercury outboard. Even wrote down the steps. Seemed easy enough but I had my doubts. It was a simple three step process: pump it, set it, and pull the cord. Oddly enough it worked like a charm and never once had a problem.
     According to the Lodge's website the best walleye fishing was right off of our dock at the mouth of an incoming stream. Only problem was the low water levels. Somehow I figured eighteen inches of water wouldn't cut it for a fish that liked sixty-five degree water. The shallow water also had me paying close attention to the rocks strewn about. The idea of whacking the motor's prop held no appeal. As it turned out, the owners had already taken bimbos like me into consideration and installed a heavy duty prop guard. Good move.

     

     

Back, Tired, and Mulling it Over

     Considering all of the walleyes we caught, it was kind of disappointing as far as Canadian fishing trips go. Could be I expect too much even though I say it doesn't matter. And like all stories about flying into the bush, this one wrote itself. Yeah, it was a good time; hard for it not to be seeing as how it was with my son. We get along and Allan always throws new light on my way of seeing things. I like that. Gives me something to think about in the thirty seconds before I fall asleep.
     This was our first fly-in and also our first serious fishing trip in Ontario. The idea, once again, was big pike and enough walleyes to kill and eat a couple. Over the winter I tied thirty spiffy-looking, bucktail treble hooks. In the spring I turned them into spinners, both single and double bladed. All were what I'd call #6 size—big pike, small musky. For the walleyes we packed a couple of dozen jigs and a few bags of plastics. That was it, jigs and spinners. For gear we had a half dozen rods and reels, backup line, and a landing net big enough for a small submarine.
    Wasn't but an uneventful five hundred and forty mile drive. Over the ten hours the scenery changed from rush hour traffic to spruce, pine, rock, and lake but it still was a long drive. At seventy-one I don't handle half a day behind a windshield like I used to. Could be that I'm no longer as tall as I once was, my butt and head have grown uncomfortably close, and too much time on my backside can cause a headache. Could also be that the excitement level isn't what it once was. Adventure might still be calling but I don't hear like I used to. Good thing I was with my son and that's always a pleasure.
     Along the way Al spotted a dead moose in the ditch. To some that might not be a highlight but these days we take our interesting where we can. Who knows, there might even have been a treasure worth collecting among the bones? However, we were in a hurry to have fun and figured being slathered by rotting stink might not be worth rooting through the festering cadaver. We drove on, hell bent for Red Lake.
     The motel wasn't much but was clean and our room was far enough from the bar that we weren't serenaded at two a.m. Done that before and it's not as neat as you might think, especially where the alarm is set to six.

   
     This mural was in the lobby. I'm not sure what's it's supposed to mean but figure moose, fish, and dead trees have a lot to do with it. In fact, the moose looked something like the one Allan spied in the ditch, bones and all. Anyhow, I thought it was a pretty spiffy painting.
   
     Our check-in with Viking Outposts didn't take but a minute. Lacking anything better to do, we hung around to drill one of the owners on pike fishing Optic Lake where we were heading. Originally we'd signed up for Night Hawk but were told the water was too low. Seems they'd had a dry winter followed by a warm spring. The temperature had hit ninety-five the day before and our outlook was mid-eighties for the next week. Glad we'd brought short sleeves and sunscreen.
     Anyhow, the word pike spawned a questioning look on the man's face, like no on had ever asked him that before. He all but blurted out, "Who the hell in their right mind would come to this part of the world to fish pike? This is walleye country. Troll and jig, Yank. That's why the good Lord invented the 9.9 horse Mercury. Oh, we've got pike all right. In fact we've got way too many of those nasty little line snapping pricks."
     I suppose his words should have been a clue, but not for me. What the hell, this was Canada, there were big pike everywhere, even in flooded ditches. I know for a fact Canadians had no love for pike. They called them jackfish and figured them not even worthy to feed to dogs. We'd heard the same up in Northwest Manitoba and found the pike fishing to be excellent. As usual, I figured the locals who'd been fishing the lakes around us since they'd stepped out of diapers, had been missing the boat. We left, none the wiser. Learning the truth took a few days.
     We were limited to 150 pounds of food and gear each.  After finishing the paperwork in the morning Allan asked if the water at our outpost was filtered. A good question that he'd asked me several times and I'd given him the wrong answer each time. Roseanne, who handled the paperwork and money, simply said, "No." That changed things a bit. Though all our canoe trip drinking water had come straight from the lake, this time I had my doubts. Luckily, Viking had 18 liter jugs of potable water we could add to the dozen liters Allan had packed and we bought one. Didn't think we'd go through it all but we did.
     Once loaded, we squeezed into a little Cessna float plane piloted by the other owner, Hugh. Later we heard Hugh probably had more hours in a Cessna than any other pilot in Canada. Nice to know and our twenty minute flight went just like the man'd been doing it all his life.
     Don't know about you but every time I've been on a plane the takeoffs and landings always hold my attention. Not that I fear dying, more that I enjoy being alive. Between times, I peek out the window at the lakes and woods passing below, scanning the dials on the dash, and checking to see if the wings might be coming loose. Touch down is always a good thing.
     Another party and a stack of gear was waiting at the dock for our arrival. I asked how the fishing had been and received an 'awesome' for an answer. Like that told me a lot. There was a time awesome was used for a category five hurricane, a moon launch, or a massive forest fire. These days the word's used for everything from a volcano to how good the beans at Taco John's taste. Guess we're easily awed these days. So what they said told me they'd caught a few, maybe a lot, who knows? I figured Allan and I would find out on our own.
     While offloading Hugh gave us the lowdown on all we needed to know, "the cabin's up there, the water pump's at the end of the hose," and in ten words and two seconds, how to start the pump. Guess we'd figure it out on our own.
     We weren't expecting five star accommodations but our cabin was more than adequate. Had most everything we needed including moose antlers:

   
   
     Ten minutes of offload and Hugh was gone. Quiet ruled the land. I've grown to love quiet and don't mind hearing my heartbeat at all. Says I'm alive and my hearing's not completely shot.