Walleye Weirdness

     Can't say I've ever been a walleye fisherman though I've stumbled on a few over the years. On our Canadian trips my son and I would use them as a go-to when we'd lost too much blood to pike. More often we'd accidentally hook one of the dumber ones, think, "There could be walleyes here," and if we were ambitious, switch to a jig and twister tail. Of course last year's trip to Ontario found us on walleye lakes and after we'd accepted the fact big pike weren't in the cards, we lowered ourselves to trolling. 

     I've never found trolling to be the same as fishing. The difference lies in being skunked. Over the years I've learned there are many ways to not catch fish and that includes using bait. I've considered wearing rubber waders in the shallows to electro shock bass like the DNR when they do a fish count but that's way too equipment heavy for my tastes. The thing about casting lures or winging flies with the long rod is even if you're skunked, you're at least honing a skill that'll come in handy when the stars line up.

     However, this year walleyes are a priority. My nephew has a thing for them and my son-in-law and grandson have never caught one, so it'd be nice to catch enough to kill and eat. We'll probably be trolling and as I said, that's not a skill. To get around the lack I'm tying my own walleye spinner rigs—never done that before—so I'm learning a new skill. They're the real deal tied from what I had on hand. There won't be a lot of color variety but since I like red and white and that's what I had, that's what they are. Throw in jigs and divers and if we don't catch 'em I can always blame the lack on it being summer when walleyes take it easy. If anyone gets huffy I'll blame covid-19, the Canadians or our simple minded President for closing the border just to keep us away from fishing heaven up in northern Manitoba.

Manning Up

     Hadn't heard the above phrase till a lady from Iowa laid it on me a few years back. When I use the the words they flow over an ironic tongue in my cheek. Though I've done a lot of stuff real Men do, I can't say I've ever thought of myself as a Man. When I think of someone who was a Man I think of the John Wayne types who never walked the walk; all ego and mouth but no action. My fictitious Uncle Emil would've laughed at the notion. He fought in the good war, worked from one end of his life to the other, stayed happily married to one woman, built his own cabin and generally treated everyone with respect. But think of himself as a Man? He'd of said, "Nope I'm just a booger who likes the feel of a hammer or paddle in my hand while surrounded by nature's quiet."

     Anyhow, one of the upsides of Voyageur's National Park is the opportunity to hit the backcountry with the idea of scaring a few bass and pike. In an effort to keep invasive species out of the few lakes off the main drag, the Park Service requires that you reserve and only use the canoes they have stashed back there. A good idea and not a problem. At the moment there's nothing open on Shoepack Lake with its muskies so we're heading up the Locator chain. Seeing as how I fear missing out on a good thing I've already pulled the trigger on a single day even though the weather's a total mystery. I guess it's a case of life in the big city spawning fears of crowds in the wilderness.

Preparing

   The last time I organized a fishing trip for more than two people was 1995 and it was a sure fire fiasco. Pretty much everything about it stunk. The frozen Boundary Waters sent us elsewhere to find bad fishing and we spent as much time killing time as being skunked. There'll be five of us this year, four adults and a fourteen year old, and I'm deep into delegating food planning. I'll handle two main meals and the others will provide the rest. We'll each eat what we consider normal for breakfast since normal gets the bowels moving and at seventy-three, moving bowels are an asset.

    As for fishing gear I've come up with a sure-fire plan—tell Cabelas I want three each of everything. Anyhow, that's what it feels like. Back in the canoe days weight was a big deal. This time, if we can fit it in two SUVs, it can come.

    More later....

      

Plan 7b Subsection IX - Evolution in the North Woods

    Yes, our plans have changed once again and a simple question did it, "Wouldn't it make more sense for an old fool to sleep in a cabin on a bed than in a tent atop a slab of bedrock?" I believe the question was directed my way. A part of me thought the questioner was an ignorant fool who didn't know what a splendid specimen of mankind I remain even though I fart every time I rise from a chair. Unfortunately it was my son who asked. Outside of my 14 year old grandson, all of us heading to the border next month have back problems that can pay a visit with no forewarning. Cripples don't make good campers. A single phone call solved the bed problem and a half-dozen others. Call it another of life's demons that can be driven off by throwing money at it—and not much money at that. So now we have a bare-boned cabin with all the conveniences of 1956, plus internet.

     Yesterday the Canadians said they still didn't want any of our kind crossing the border till at least July 21. No sweat, we weren't going to anyhow. Our only remaining problem is finding fish in mid-summer. A little research told me it's a crapshoot. Some say do this, some say do that. Our solution is to be ready for anything, hope the wind isn't up, and pack enough food and beer. 

     Just came back from three days at the cabin with a good friend. We played and canoe-fished like we were still in our thirties and now my body once again tells me chairs are wonderful. 

Old Man Fishing

      My days in a canoe are not over but they sure aren't what they used to be, but at 73, what is? The highlight of my advancing age is being able to make fun of myself in ways that would've been embarrassing twenty years ago and not caring much what anyone thinks. A second is still being flexible enough to listen to the possibility of change even if it first pisses me off no end. Like I said in my last post, I live in South Minneapolis. Yesterday it was announced by a veto-proof majority of our city council that they were going to defund the police department. Yup, that set me off. Then today I spoke with my council person and learned their plan is nowhere near as bad as it sounds. It'll take a year or so with a lot of input from all sides and finally it'll be voted on in the 2021 city ballot—or hopefully it will.

      Fine and dandy, time to move onto more important issues like fishing the border lakes. Like I hinted, the canoes will remain in the shed. I still paddle and fish from them but only on the small, backwater lakes by our cabin. Of course that won't happen unless I share blood with you or if we've known each other for at least three decades. Standards like those cuts out the riffraff.
      What excites me about this year's trip to Lake Namakan is the chance to put a tingle of adventure in three men and one fourteen year old, and with a little luck, the fish of a lifetime on the end of one of their lines. Pretty much all of our ducks are in line. About all there's left to do is conjure up with a food list and bring it to life. Six weeks to go so there's no hurry.
      As usual, I was a little slow on accepting reality, this time on how much gas to carry for the motors. I asked people how much and consulted charts. What they told me was simply don't short yourself but don't go overboard. The simple solution would be to make a mid-week, fifteen mile run back to the lodge for more gas and ice. Only an idiot wouldn't have realized that from the get-go. That I didn't comes as no surprise. For the moment I'll leave at that and go rest my brain.

George Floyd

     I live in South Minneapolis pretty much midway between 38th and Chicago where George Floyd was killed and the several miles of Lake Street that's been burned and looted during the protests and riots. Top that off with covid-19 and it hasn't been real uplifting around here. Things are finally mellowing a bit and those into burning and looting have gone wherever it is such people go. We're still running a nighttime curfew and have grown used to military helicopters passing overhead—sounds a little like my days in Vietnam.

      Yesterday I spoke with the owner of the Elbow Lake Lodge in Northern Manitoba and learned our party was the last group to cancel. Even though we've only spent a week together Steve and I have become friends, that is if you can call someone who's read three of my books and will still talk to me, a friend. He's sixty years old these days and runs a one man operation on a first class lake. Last year he bought new motors for his boats, put a new coat of paint on all his buildings, rebuilt his docks, installed all new appliances in his cabins, split a season's worth of firewood, and that's the icing on top of handling fishing parties of five to eight sports. In 2020 the entire operation will sit empty—strikes me like he's had a year of his life stolen. Even if the border does open, Manitoba will not allow non-residents to travel north of 53 degrees. 

      A week ago I got on the stick and set up a plan B that should hopefully be a decent substitute. The five of us will spend a week camping on classic, Lake Namakan in Voyageur's National Park about a water mile from the Canadian border. The logistics of such a trip is challenging. We needed to rent two boats with motors, reserve one of the few remaining open campsites, and then go through all the usual rigamarole of food and gear. I believe we have everything we need so long as we coordinate but history tells me we'll have doubles of a few things and be short on others. I have my hopes we'll nail it for once but have learned to accept the inevitable. Then there's me at age seventy-three, the man who'd said he'd never do anything as stupid as camping in the boonies ever again. I suppose there's an upside to old men sleeping on the ground and with luck I'll write about it in a couple of months. Interestingly,  this year's trip has evolved into something both exciting and affordable. The best part is I haven't gotten too old to obsess.

Consternation

     Covid-19 is a problem in many ways. There are five of us with hopes of heading to Manitoba in late July. All of us are still up for it but what will the US and Canada be thinking at the time? At the moment the border is still closed. Beyond that, even if it's open in July will we be required to quarantine for two weeks? If so, how will that affect out of country fishermen? As restrictions in the US loosen will there be a spike in cases? If the border opens and all the current restrictions are still in effect, will we be forced to travel in four cars or become outlaws on the lam for good fishing?. Would we want to do that? Oh well, I suppose the only logical thing will be to take it as it comes and not worry about it.

     On the upside, outside of food and clothing I'm ready to go. No matter what, we've got eighty-seven days for things to mellow out. If it doesn't, so be it. There's always the cabin and the backwaters I've discovered over the last thirty-nine years—not what I'm looking for but better than nothing.

     I haven't posted much in the last year but am still writing—editing might be a better word. One more time to make sure all the 't's are crossed and Between Thought and the Treetops will be as finished as it'll ever be. This time I'll publish in a trade paperback format to cut the price. Not that it matters, I write for enjoyment. At seventy-three the thrill of life's not gone but sure as hell is a whole lot mellower than it used to be.