Six weeks ago I went fishing with my grandson Jakob. He's my daughter and son-in-law's oldest. That is if you can consider a five year old oldest at anything. In his mind we were off on either an expedition or another one of Grandpa's waste's of time. Lucky for me he's an understanding kid. Willing to give me the benefit of the doubt. S'pose he'll eventually outgrow that.
The drive was a five blocker to a small city lake. My plan was to be a good grandpa and bend Jake's twig in the right direction. Maybe throw a couple of bluegills in for good luck. Bought him a half-decent spincast rig, about the right length for a half pint and wanted to see if he could handle it. Yeah, he's a tad too young to hold his own in the front of a canoe on a Canadian lake yet and by the time he can I'll be wearing Depends. But that doesn't stop me from dreaming. Seems there's still a maybe swimming around in my head. Something about him being twelve years old and me being seventy-one. After all, Allan was only twelve when we did the Boundary Waters the first time. As for me…. Well, guess we'll have to wait and see how that pans out. Just maybe, the good Lord willing, me and my grandson can still catch us a few smallies up on East Pike Lake, sleep in a tent and sip a little Jim Beam. Probably best drop the last part. I don't much like whiskey.
One thing about grandkids is they'll give you your third go around on learning the concept of time and distance. Learned it myself. Watched it dawn on Annie and Allan. Now Jakob. So when we pulled up to the little lake after two minutes and fourteen seconds on the road, Jake asked, "Are we at the cabin?" A simple, "Nope, the cabin's a lot farther," worked nicely. It's tough on me dealing with such innocence. Sarcasm runs in my blood. Always has. Probably always will. However, the idea that we might be at the cabin and Jakey wasn't phased by the idea, bodes well for next summer or one of the next.
Of course I had to take the first cast. Old guys like to play too. The next five were Jakob's. Went so well he must have been practicing when I wasn't looking. Deceitful little bugger. Good distance and pretty much on the mark. But no fish. We'd have moved around till we found 'em but he laid something on me that couldn't be ignored, "I've got to pee Grandpa." Since the City of Minneapolis frowns on grandparents allowing five year olds to urinate in a park or pretty much anywhere outside, we headed home. Don't remember Lee Wolff, John Gierach or Roland Martin ever using that as an excuse to stop fishing.
The point of this intro and the reason for the title has to do with Jakob's middle name, Dean. When his mom and dad came to naming him there was no choice as to what Jake's middle one would be. His dad's was Dean and his dad's dad was Dean. Coincidentally, Jakob's Uncle Eldon, not in the line of fire at all, carries the middle name of Dean. Where the idea for Dean arose I s'pose only a traveling salesman and many a lonely house frau in Northwest Iowa know. But that's just my guess. No offense meant.
For the last five or six years - by now you might have noticed that I lean toward guesswork when it comes to time. Continually throw around words like about, around, or so and of course, five or six, a lot. And to think I've managed to stay clear of six of one, half dozen of the other for nigh onto a year. Seems I've become more approximate than more accurate as I've grown older. No doubt the scars of having been wrong so many times. Those kind of erroneous numbers weigh on a man. On the other hand, a whole lot of stuff has happened in my lifetime. It all tends to jumble together in the oatmeal that is my brain. Should have taken the time to document it all. What a waste of my life that would have been. So my history tends to break down into the recent, five or six years ago and a long time ago. The long time ago I typically have no problems with. e.g. New Years Eve 1967 had a windchill of sixty-five below. Ain't that swell?
Let's give it another go around: For the last five or six years I've been doing a June, cabin-centered, fishing trip with in-laws. As in son-in-law, his dad and his uncle. Ryan, Larry and Eldon respectively. First off, though Ryan lives in Sioux Falls, all three of them are Iowans to the bone. As most everyone knows in this part of the world, an Iowan is a Minnesotan with a little more dirt under the fingernails. We're a little wetter behind the ears. Stands to reason, we've got the lakes, they're buried under deep rich soil. Minnesotans like to make fun of their southern neighbors. Mostly that's 'cause we're hopin' to high heaven, while knowin' it ain't the truth, that someone out there is more hinterlandy than us thirteen lined ground squirrel lovers. Our disagreements were summed up unintentionally by The National Lampoon with two figures of death fighting over a pickle. Not sure what that means but it seems to fit.
To me, in the context of this essay, what matters is that Iowans fish for bullheads. Period. No doubt that's my ignorance and prejudice, but I doubt it. Also figure they'd fish for lakers, muskies and walleyes if they could. But, like I said, they've got bullheads.
Oh they try to pooh-pooh that notion. Over the years the three Deans've told me time and again about Grandpa Dan, Iowa personified, and his quest for walleyes on Spirit Lake, Lake Okoboji or some other God forsaken, overstuffed farm pond down there. But to the best of my knowledge no walleyes were ever hooked or landed. All I've heard about are sinking boats and the incredible length of Grandpa Dan's cigarette ash. Seems the cigarette was always dangling from his lower lip, the wind was always up, the boat was always sinking and the ash always at least two inches long. Not a walleye was ever mentioned. Watching that ash no doubt took my future fishing partners' minds off skinnin' a bucket of bullheads.
During the few years our knowledge of each other overlapped, I met grandpa Dan a few times. Always seemed a mellow old guy with a permanent smile on his weathered face. Weathered's an understatement. One look told you that man had spent his time out in the weather. Good way to look. Also seen photos of him as a much younger man. Looked like a man on a mission and you were in his way. Attitude in work clothes. First time we met he said, 'Heard you're quite a fisherman." Made me feel good. But I had to be honest with him even though it'd sound like I was being falsely modest, "Nope. But I've spent a lot of my time finding lakes where the fish are dumber than I am." Meeting Grandpa Dan got me to thinking. In the old photos of him he had the look I've seen in black and whites of canoemen back in the '50s. No pretense in their dress. Stringer of lake trout tying them together. Not much giving a damn how big the fish looked. They were big and there were plenty of them. Those guys were a different breed. And Grandpa Dan would've fit in nicely.
Don't remember exactly how the up to the cabin trips came about. So here's my guess: Back in the early days of Ryan entering our family, he and Annie used to come up north once in a while. Ryan seemed to like it in the woods. For fun we played golf. No resort courses for us thank you. Dirty blue collar, back in the woods, courses. If your ball strayed into those woods you left it there. Too hard to play out of the poison ivy. Also, in Ryan's case, golf didn't bring bullheads into the equation. Anger, frustration and mosquitoes maybe, but definitely no bullheads.
Then, magically, one day he found himself in the front of my canoe with a bass on the end of his line. Ooh, bass. Not a whisker on its head and it was okay to throw it back in the lake. No more nailin', slittin' and skinnin'. A fisherman was born that day. Or at least uncovered. Ryan had so much fun the next thing I knew his dad was along for the ride. The great June Fishing Trip, with food and beer, was born. Larry was instantly hooked. That first year there were two trips. The second one in the fall included Ryan's uncle Eldon. Also hooked. So it came to be. R. Dean, L. Dean, El. Dean and me.
That first year it was Ryan and his dad in the canoe together. Logical and a chance for gettin' out the pointless bitching a father and son need once in a while. Being ten feet apart in an Alumacraft can sometimes be a little close for comfort. With the weight bein' on the guy in the back. Gotta learn to drop that rod tip when the man up front is buggy whippin' pointed steel on a side-arm cast. Also a tad nerve wracking when that rod tip's pointing between your eyes. I've been behind Ryan and found it fascinating the way his rod tip figure-eights right at me on the back cast. Comes so close on occasion that I find myself checking out the wraps on his squirrel tail, cross-eyed. Hasn't drawn blood yet but I've given some thought to buying him a five foot rod.
As for Larry, it was both a fatherly and a self-sacrificing act taking the back seat. They've done well together over the years considering their initial lack of canoe experience. Learned a lot even though they still zig-zag even more than two drunks trying to walk a straight line. Never really asked them how they felt being the only canoemen on the Minnesota lakes we've fished. And they've never actually said anything about it on their own. I hope it's made them feel a cut above all the noise, nonsense and pollution. Though, for them, it might actually be an exercise in humility.
As for the fishing, like I said, they were bullheaders not game fishermen. Whether they asked me or whether I forced my will on them, "My cabin, my way of fishing. Like it or lump it." Either way, I figured they'd have a lot more fun catchin' than being skunked. I knew their predicament. When I was a kid, bullheads were a way of life during the summertime. Red and white bobber, hook and and worm. So I set 'em up with a slip bobber rig. The slip bobber was as much a revelation to them as it had been to me when my wife's cousin turned me on to them. Thanks, Gary. No single hook though. Sixteenth ounce jig and a tiny power tube. Set it shallow, fish it in the pads and horse 'em out. It ain't pretty. No grand fight and acrobatic leaps. They eventually came to putting the canoe in so tight as to be shore fishing. Holey-moley did they catch panfish and bass. They still tend to fish that way as a means to learn a lake.
The second trip was in the fall. And Eldon came along to add a little more color to the already colorful woods. El. Dean had this thing about canoes. Didn't like them one bit. Something about ending up in the lake every time he was briefly in one. What a whiner. So he ended up as my partner 'cause I promised him in as casual a manner - like rolling a canoe had never happened to me and never would - as possible - in a voice like Chuck Yeager would've used to explain that the wing had just come off his experimental jet - that he'd be okay. And catch a washtub full of fish. Now, the truth was, I was pretty sure we'd be okay together. But saying never is like dancing with the devil. Set him up with the same rig as the other two Deans.
Being partnered up in a canoe too many times with the same person is a lot like being married. You have to watch what you say. Don't want to be too domineering or you'll piss your partner off. Too passive and you piss yourself off. Like me. El. Dean gets me to swearing quietly to myself once in a while. Partly my fault, partly his. His end rides a little too deep in the lake for me. Simple navigation, a trim boat rides a little high in the bow and gives the paddler in the aft a little more control. Ours moves nose down. Plows the waves, pivots at the front. I figure if I paddled hard enough, we'd rotate like a pinwheel. If we were kids on a see-saw, I'd be the one on the up end, legs dangling, crying, "C'mon, let me down!" Guess gravity likes El. Dean more than me. Why not? He's a likable guy.
The my fault part is partly Allan's fault. We've got a few thousand canoe miles behind us. His idiosyncrasies and bad habits have become my standard for a front man. Al motors, I approximate our direction. I flail both sides of the boat, he paddles on the right. Always. Says the left side pains him. So I never a need to call out directions unless it's an emergency in big waves. Since he's always on the right, he never steers from the front. If we veer a bit off course, he knows we're okay 'cause my mind is wandering and all's right with the world.
El. Dean and I have never worked out our mental balance. Paddling a canoe seems a simple task and it is. But it's a teamwork thing. Two people moving one boat. El needs direction but I don't do that well. Like I said, never had to do that. Don't know where to begin and don't want to piss him off. Too good of friends to squabble over near nothing. Not that big a problem really. We don't fish big water together. Rarely travel more than a mile. So it's not much more than an annoyance. Still, I'll occasionally descend into mumbled cursing. As much at my failure to communicate as toward him.
Maybe I need to throw a fifty pound boulder in the stern. Or introduce El. Dean to Jenny Craig. Look what she did for Marie Osmond (I think she's a Jenny Craig grad). Religion and politics aside, if El. Dean came out looking as good as Ms. Osmond.... Or get him away from his wife, who's way too good a cook. Her pastries are an invitation to an early but happy death. So I guess the odds of us doing a real canoe trip together are directly proportional to his chances for divorce. Doubt very much that "too good in the kitchen" would constitute acceptable grounds for divorce.
Besides difference of bulk, our pasts carry a lot of shared weight. Both of us were in the Army at the same time. Creates a bond that goes beyond throwin' lures in a lake or having shared relatives. El. Dean never made it to Vietnam. But that's the crapshoot of the military. Some go, some don't, but we all wore olive drab. And all had to put up with the same shit. By and large career soldiers weren't a happy lot in those days. Just ask El. Dean. Yup, it does flow downhill in the Army. Both of us married, two children, grandchildren. Seen a lot of the same things. We make for a good fit.
He's an easy going man. Likes his time up north. Looks forward to it all year. I can relate to that. He'd be the first to tell you that what he needs is more time in the woods and on the water. But there's no spare time burnin' a hole in his pocket. No sir. He works for a living. And Lordy how a time clock'll put a crimp in your time. Personal experience tells me the only thing that sucks more than workin' for a dollar is being unemployed. You've got a job these days, you don't walk out on it. Odd how that works.
So we find El. Dean, a family man with bills to pay. And not lookin' forward to retirement anytime soon. It's a dilemma and looks never ending. Enough to make a thinking man a bit bummed once in a while. Don't know about him but I sure didn't see it coming when I punched in at age sixteen. Thought I was the Golden Child. Dame Fortune would take care of all my problems and leave me roses. Most of us have been through that drill. Most of us know it could have been a whole lot worse. Don't think El. Dean would disagree but that doesn't buy him an extra minute of spare time just for being grateful. So we get along fine. Unless he spills the corn. Or anyone else does for that matter. I like home packed sweet corn. You come to the cabin, don't spill the corn and we be just fine.
For my part, I'm among the fortunate. Retired, not starving and finding my time up at the cabin with the Deans one of life's pleasures. Always is. Gives me another fixed point on which my life turns. But, you see, Barb Lake is still up there in Grass River Provincial Park. Unseen, waiting and eight miles paddle and two miles of swamp portage away from the Iskwasum lake access. As Bob with the Black lab told me and Allan, "It's a walleye a cast, eh." Yup, it's sittin' up there, waitin' on me and I'm down here watchin' my window of opportunity slowly close. The cabin's fine but not where I really want to be in the first half of June. I miss the tingle of adventure.
Last note before we go and catch us some fish: Canoe fishin's about partners. Besides Allan, there are few I'd care to drive nine hundred miles with, much less spend a day or two paddling deep enough in just to get a taste of wilderness. Grass River's not what I'd call wilderness but you can smell it from there. I'm not asking for the real deal, just something close enough so I can pretend. As for the Deans, I'd go with any or all of them. L. Dean in the back of their canoe knows his limitations. That and his innate honesty are about all you can ask of a canoeman. R. Dean can motor, listens to instruction and loves to fish. It'd be a thrill watching him tie into a thicket of walleyes or three foot pike. El. Dean, like I said, would need to push away from the table. But his laugh and companionship would be worth a creative canoe trimming.
Last June's trip had it all. From a hundred fifty bass day to a four man near skunkathon. Two days in particular:
Back in the old days, the Road to Every Lake days, touted by characters that would have fit nicely onto Main Street, by Sinclair Lewis, a Minnesota man, a few of those lakes were missed. Small, out of the way, bullhead infested ponds deemed unroadworthy. What the Chambers of Commerce had in mind was a photo of fifteen red and black plaid covered hunters standing in front of fifteen gutted, steer-sized bucks hanging on a rack festooned by garlands of ten pound walleyes. Caption reading, "Come and Kill Your Share in Minnesota." They weren't looking for a bunch of on-the-cheap SOBs like me and the Deans. Those roads were made for Packards and full wallets. That they left a few sloughs untouched was a Godsend to us canoe boys.
In the following decades - now this is purely my fantasy and may not have any connection to reality. You have to remember, I came of age in the sixties. reality was optional. Groovy! - the locals came to feelin' squeezed out on the accessible lakes they grew up near. Also, the fishing wasn't as easy as dad and grandpa said it'd been. A thousand acre lake with a couple of dozen motorboats trolling about didn't seem to have much 'away from it all' to it.
So they took matters into their own hands. On a good day they'd keep some of the bass, pike and panfish they caught, stick 'em in a cooler of water and dump the lot into some out of the way bullhead pond. They knew just the right ones. Got the pickup stuck on the two track logger's roads while rumbling in for some duck hunting last fall. Small but deep enough to not freeze out. Tough enough driving to get you thinking about your oil pan. Kept the riff-raff in their Lincolns and Cadillacs out. Usually had the water to themselves. And if they did have to share, they knew each other and their dogs by name. Might be a hundred or two such ponds scattered across the North Country.
Those are the lakes I seek. It's my talent. Remember what I told Grandpa Dan. Besides, it's much easier pretending you're in the boonies if the lake you're fishing has no cabins. So if you live in Blackduck, MN, decide to head out for an evening's fishing on a nearby hidden pond and find an old fart in a plastic canoe, give him a wave. Might be me. Promise I'll put 'em all back and won't tell anyone where we are and what we're doing.
So it was on one of those lakes me and the Deans found ourselves. Been there before. Knew what to expect, a good lake. But me and El. Dean were playin' with a new deck and, since it was my deck, I was hoping I'd remembered to pack all fifty-two cards. Wasn't so much passing on knowledge as I was experimenting. And using El. as a guinea pig. Didn't let him know that though. Of course our usual plan of attack was throwin' a #3 spinner tight to shore and starting to crank before she hit the water. El. Dean never took to that tactic as he's a right hander all the way and has to switch hands with the rod. Churns the bottom before his slack is on the spool. Catches a lot of weed and branches that way but not many bass.
Our angle of angling this time be tubes and jigs. Don't drag me into the great controversy of polluting with plastics in pristine ponds. Cutting it to brown sparkly tubes is as close as I'll let my delicate northern soul approach the purple worms of the Great South. For now. Tubes are mostly weedless. Since you work them slowly along the bottom, El. Dean's already got the technique down pat though he's highly skeptical. Man of little faith.
We leap frogged R. and L. Dean and headed a ways down the beaver-branch strewn shore. Overcast, pockets of lily pads throughout the twenty acre bay we're in, surrounded by pine and birch tight to the water. Could be in the western Boundary Waters for the way it looks. And we're alone on the water. Perfect. El. Dean's got the general drift of what to do. Picked up a small bass right off and put a look on his face that says, I sure didn't see that coming. Then settled into casting practice for a while. I'm catchin' a few. So El. moved into the comfort of business as usual on a great bass pond. Got lazy and didn't work the tube like a real fisherman ought, instead simply threw the rig and let it sink to the bottom. Then didn't do squat for a half minute, maybe a minute and settled into enjoying the scenery. Finally, more out of boredom than anything else, started to reel slowly, real slowly. And began two hours of bass catching like I'd never seen. Not big bass. This lake holds nothing much over two pounds. On the other hand, few are under a foot. Looked like he was catching the same fish over and over. Around his fifth bass we began to count figuring El. was in the beginning of a day of days. We quit counting when he hit fifty.
Hate to admit it but after a dozen or two I realized he was onto something beyond my ken. Time for me to learn from the student. I sucked it up and asked El. his method. So simple. Tells me it's all in the feel and drag. When he starts reeling sometimes he feels a soft nibble. Like a bluegill messing with your worm. If so, he lets it sit than waits a few seconds and sets the hook. Bam! Like Jimmy Houston without any bass kissin'. Different laugh also. If no immediate nibble he drags the tube slowly. Any nibble along the way is cause for a few seconds wait. Then it's bam time again. El. Dean was a true bass-o-magic that day. Not like like the one in Dan Ackroyd's routine. Ackroyd's a Canadian. And they don't know diddley about largemouth.
Oh yeah, it was fun even if they all were thirteen and a half inches. You have to question our sanity. Like a couple of pre-pubescent twelve year olds. Days like that one can spoil you for a long time. We finally had to pull the plug and seek out R. and L. Dean. Tell 'em how wonderful we were but had no effect. They were doing every bit as good as we were and had the same goofy smiles stuck to their faces.
The next day we finally found it. Not where it was supposed to be according to the DNR. But a two minute hike told the tale. Couple of years earlier we'd tried the same game on what was supposed to be the right two track only to dead end at a wall of woods. Done that a few times in the past. Back in the late '90s, Allan and I gave what we considered our best shot toward finding a lake named Bag. A thirty acre pot hole really. None of our maps showed any type of deer trail or forestry road heading that way. But I knew in my marginal bushwhacking heart of hearts there had to be a way. This was Minnesota. Bag was a lake deep enough to not freeze out. Been there since the Ice Age so there must have been plenty of folks as idiotic as me who'd have forged some kind of way in.
We started off in the right general direction. Found a two track. Almost too easy. Off we went on a trail that had a mind of its own. Five minutes in, our direction was in doubt and the track narrowed to a hair under a Jeep's width. It seems hazel brush has a thing about running sine wave tattoos down the sides of slightly lost vehicles. When the path opened up, it also disappeared. We found ourselves looking down into a pristine valley pretty as all get out. Birch, red and jackpine. Old, mossy floor with columbine, dogwood, ancient singed jackpine stumps that could've been there for many decades. Gnarly, tough buggers, thick with pitch, they'd be there for many more. Their nut like cones wouldn't think of opening without a forest fire. See, fire's our friend so long as it doesn't get too cuddly. The valley was pretty enough in the filtered light to get out and dally a minute before backing slowly out. Figured there must be another way.
That last paragraph was more or less true. Problem was I tried to get all poetic and don't do that well. Just ain't me. Poetic is supposed to come from a fertile mind and eye. My fertile's a lot closer to compost without the aging process. Get to readin' other authors - oops, gotta remember, I'm a writer not an author - and thinking damn, I sure wish I could write like I knew what I was doing. That leads to all kinds of what I consider profound thoughts. Then I write them out and see their naked reality. Time to whack myself across the knuckles a couple of times and stand nose to the wall in the corner for a half hour. Guess I've finally grown enough to no longer need nuns. Mea culpa.
Over the next twenty minutes we dead-ended twice more. "Got a problem city boys? Most anyone 'round here could find Bag with their eyes shut in the dark, on a moonless night, stone drunk. Sheee-it. Maybe it'd help if you got outta the fancy jeep once in a while for a look-see." The wisdom of age takes failure in stride. We packed it in and headed for the Nasons.
Me and the Deans must've passed the access road/mud hole five times that week before L. and R. Dean finally walked in. The track wasn't but a couple hundred yards of pot hole and rock. Ended at a sign saying the road that had been, wasn't there any more. But enough room to park. The lake sat thirty feet below us down a path nobody, but nobody could back down with a trailer, much less pull it back up. The lake was as tiny as advertised, sixty acres, but looked nothing like my mind's eye thought it would. So what else was new?
Let me tell you about what the DNR reported and what I'd heard some locals describe about what we were looking at. The lake is a Y-shaped cut in a valley. Fifteen years ago it was described as a "great place to take to take kids fishing." Nothing but bass. Small bass. Lotsa bass. Then a dozen years ago someone dumped in a few pike and bluegills. I suppose the intention was to thin out and increase the size of the bass. For a few years it worked like a charm. Not as many bass but some were pushing four pounds. The pike grew like they were on hormones. That's why we were there. Big bass, big pike. Some fun, eh?
The access was perfect for us. If you couldn't haul it down by hand, you'd best go somewhere else to wet your noodle. I was pumped. Hope floats on new water. This pond was shallow but we expected that. A minute on the water, El. Dean was reeling in his first small pike. Then his second, his third, fourth. All pike, all small. And so it continued. L. and R. Dean were having the same luck. Our two canoes worked the entire lake to the tune of endless small pike. El. broke his boredom by throwing a Gordian knot of a snarl which kept him busy like a kitten with a ball of yarn. I switched to a slip bobber rig hoping to find some of the bluegills. Instead found a few of the tiniest perch I'd ever seen. Each had a look of terror on its face. Like they lived in horror-filled dreams of pike teeth and an early death. We finally put the rods down, cruised and enjoyed the evening. L. and R. continued to throw spinners.
So here's the story I was more or less told, with an aside or two: From the beginning of our fishing trips, L. Dean's biggest complaint was having to spend a lot of his time doing boat control while R. Dean hauled in fish. L.'s own fault really. They could've switched positions. But L. always said, "Nah, that's okay. Being my son, you've been putting a crimp on my style for closing in on four decades. Why should a couple of days in a canoe be any different?" On the other hand, L. Dean seems to catch the lion's share of the big pike. He set the bar in the first year and has upped the ante a few times since. Turned out his two biggest came while El. Dean and I were smelling the roses on the night in question. Back to back in the far corner of the lake. Of course there were no pictures. No measurement. Nothing but their word and, like I wrote earlier, L. Dean's innate honesty to go by. Their original estimate had the pair at five feet each. A minute's dickering, like we were bargaining for a life-sized statue of Emilio Zapata sitting on a rainbow colored unicorn/donkey in Tijuana, dropped them to a reasonable thirty-six inches each. I could accept that. Big fish for a tiny lake.
S'pose the lesson is that if you add some eating machines to a lake's mix it isn't always the smartest thing to do. Pike like to eat. Especially when the food happens to be a bunch of innocent bass that'd never seen a pike. Now the lake can be described as "a great place to take kid's fishing. But first teach 'em how to use a jaw spreader."
Our few days up north usually fall short of enough time for doing all we want. Breakfast in, lunch out, cook supper to the tune of a few beers, fishing inbetween. A good time always. And I'm already scouting out new water for next year. It'll be a humdinger.
Monday, October 10, 2011
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Ramblin' with and without Emil
Ramblin' fits what's gonna come like a good pair of socks, the kind I can't afford. If I ever won the lottery - okay, first I'd have to buy a ticket - high priced socks would be The major change in my life. Flat seamed and sixteen bucks a pop. Lap of luxury. As for this entry, I have no idea where it'll will go. The intention was a some form of bitch session in which I'd figure it all out and set the world straight. Gave it a try in ink and didn't much get anywhere. But I wrote a lot of words and Sister Eleanor Marie ground it into my brain a long time ago that it's a sin to waste words. Don't think she meant it in the same way I learned it. But I wrote 'em and don't intend to waste 'em all. By the way, if you'd like to read something written by a guy who writes like I wish I could, give Michael Perry a try. That's the Michael Perry from the boondocks in Wisconsin.
Emil tells me there's a time for everything. Maybe he stole that idea from the Old Testament but most of my ideas have come from books. So why not Emil? What he was driving at when he first brought it up during my early post-Vietnam years, brought a smile to my face. Believe me, it wasn't a smile of agreement. You see, he was driving on one road and I was hearing on another. Another communication problem back in the age of the Generation Gap. Pondering that conversation, I suspect he was saying something simple and profound. But that's not what I was picking up on. You see, I was a hot shot with long hair, a college degree, a tour in Vietnam and a protest cat to boot. New generation, new way of seeing life. All gonna be better when we take over. Most of all I had this thing about Lifers. Picked it up in the Army where FTA was a big deal to us Draftees. We tended to look upon any soldier who'd re-upped as a Lifer. A short haired, flag wavin' SOB who'd no doubt shed a tear at the end of the movie Patton and then re-upped for the cheap booze at the NCO Club.
After I got out I felt a moral need to protest the War, mostly 'cause I was pissed about having been in the Army in the first place. That's when I got to meet some of the movers and shakers of the anti-war movement in Minnesota. In their own way they were as big a bunch of assholes as the Lifers in the Army. Seemed to have a pecking order as to who was against the War for the longest. They gave me the feeling they were still fighting the revolution with the Red Army in 1917 or manning the barricades of Paris in 1848. In truth they hadn't been anywhere or done anything as far as I could see. They were against the war and abhorred the fact that the American Army was fighting its war with way too many Blacks and poor people. At the same time they fought like hell to keep their deferments. So who did they think was going to get drafted? Wars are always fought by the poor.
So, back to Emil. He was a WWII veteran. I sure knew where they were coming from. Short hair, the straight line, my way or the highway, love it or leave it with a flag decal in the rear window of the station wagon. But if I'd taken the time to give Emil's Nomad a closer look I'd of seen there wasn't a sticker on it anywhere. Maybe Emil hadn't landed on the beaches but he'd been blown out of the water and dog paddled with the dead. He knew life was a gift not to be wasted. And that we lived in a time and place that was blessed. He didn't ever talk about the war, was glad he went and wouldn't go again even if his life depended on it. He had his shit together and I couldn't see it.
What was it he was saying? While my mind wandered, Emil had moved on. I think the angle was still about a time for everything. As I drift back in he's pontificatin', " Seems like everyone has their own idea of what constitutes the best buzz. Changes as you get older I guess. The wine sippers have their bouquet, the beer guzzlers their hoppiness. There's pot heads, coke sniffers, what-have-you. Hard to keep up with all the bad habits these days. Now if you want my two cents, absolutely nothin' beats a good cup of coffee, a long road and someone you like to talk with ridin' shotgun."
When I first heard that spiel I wrote him off as over the hill and then some. That was a long time ago. Times change. Nowadays I've come to see his point. Might have something to do with being about as old as he was back then. I suppose part of me knew it all along. Used to be a toast dunker when I was a kid. Best time of the day in the Delta - didn't take much to be a best time of day in The Nam - was just before sunset. We'd be set up a short hump from our night position. Finishing off our supper break. Roll the pant legs up, shoot the breeze. 'Bout the time the sun was on the tree line tops, I'd fire up the cappuccino. Yeah, we carried an espresso maker with us. The big brass kind that weighed about three hundred pounds. We'd make the newest grunt in town hump the beast just so's a couple of us caffein aficionados could have the pleasure of a fine brew. Sorry about that, sometimes my fingers get carried away. Reality was instant coffee, creamer, sugar, cocoa and water heated up over a small chunk of match-lit C-4 in a c-ration can stove. All provided free of charge by the U.S. taxpayers. I'd sit back, sip the brew, savor a last smoke and watch the sun go down on another day in paradise. Night sucked but that cup of coffee and cigarette made it almost worthwhile.
I guess what I'm trying to say's that Emil wasn't so dumb. Maybe the simple pleasures of life are the best. Like being up at the cabin for another three day stretch of lonesome. Bein' by myself lasts for as long as it takes to make a pot of coffee. When the first drop hits the pot, Emil will usually show up with his old Pure Oil cup in his hand. The one with the dark stains on the inside from either ten thousand cups of coffee or one too many lube jobs. Even though he's not really there I'll pore him a cup. Always too hot to drink. But that don't stop Emil. He'll blow across the cup three or four times. Slurp a little off the top, set the cup down and say, "Thasss good."
Uncle Emil's not the type to pop up when others are around. He likes the 'tween times as he calls 'em. Could be he's selfish with my time. Could be that he doesn't talk loudly and no longer hears as good as he used to. Quiet times are the best for him. The cabin, on the road, in the canoe on little out-of-the-way lakes. Or stomping his way through my dreams. Lordy, Lordy do he mess with my dreams now and then. The hard part is gettin' him to come out the inky end of my pen. Then he gets all shy and hidey. He's the smartest man I ever met. Can see through me and the BS of the world like he's lookin' out a window after Spring cleaning. But he's not all that easy to understand. Can be downright cryptic at times.
So it's a Sunday night. Am up here to fit and hang fourteen home made cabinet doors in the kitchen. The kitchen's not really a kitchen, just an area in the great room. The great room ain't really a great room either. Sixteen by twenty-two with a lofted ceiling. The doors are made from six boxes of prefinished, birch flooring that just happened to be sittin' on the sidewalk during a local small town celebration. I tried to walk on by. Almost did. But they called me back with the Siren Song of "Hello sailor. We're cheap, shiny, tongue and grooved - get it? - and will do anything you want for eighty cents a board-foot." How could I resist? Yup, no one wanted them as much as me. Took a lot of work changing those trollops into something I could bring home and feel comfortable with. Didn't turn out perfect but Emil says they look exactly like something I'd do. Not sure what he meant by that but I'll take it as a compliment. All the prep work is done. Tomorrow the hanging.
Ah yes, there is a plan for tomorrow. Work in the morning, eat lunch and be on the water by 2 p.m. Stay there 'til 5:30. Once I'm out the door and hit the highway there's a choice to be made. Left's an out-of-the-way carry-in lake just bustin' a gut with small bass. Right's toward a small, not quite a thousand acre, muskie lake. I've had this thing stuck in my craw, wherever and whatever the hell a craw is, to someday be a fly rod and solo canoe muskie fisherman. I intimidate myself with the thought. So much so that I ain't done it yet. Actual muskie anglers tell me I'd end up in the water with the fish. Even with the best of luck, what would I do with a thirty-five pound fish when it got tired of towing around a forty pound boat? Probably laugh a lot, then cut the line. Whichever way I go, Emil says he's coming along. Bass or muskie? Emil says so long as I keep the lake under the canoe, it doesn't matter which way we go. As for me, I'm thinkin' boat-towers.
It happens most every time I get up here by myself. Monday morning dawns and the plan is in flux. Breakfast done, forty-five degrees out, fire in the stove and more I want to do than will fit in twelve hours of daylight. I could go at it like a banshee. Done that many times in my younger years. A lot gets done at the expense of enjoyment. I'm retired. Time to get stuff done at a fartin' around pace. A lot still gets done but I get a feeling of greater depth out of it. If I don't fish, no problem. And I'm actually looking forward to hanging the doors. I'm where I want to be, doing what I want to do.
Life's a lot like homemade cabinets. Need I say more? I took my time building the new doors. They're not perfect but had I been shooting for perfect, they'd have gone on the floor like they were intended in the first place. The intention is to pull the old, warped doors off and just pop the new ones in. But I don't trust myself and my measurements. Whenever I usually do things involving wood and tools there's a near infinite amount of running back and forth checking and double checking involved. This time there was no running at all. Measured the door openings at the cabin and built the doors at home. I know the measurements are right but at the same time, know they're wrong.
The doors themselves are like miniature, rectangular floors in a frame that is joined together with a biscuit joiner. The joiner was state of the art when I bought it. But when I bought it Ronnie Reagan was still in his first term and the joiner is now an antique. As I wade into the job it turns out some of the problems of the old set had to do with the cabinets themselves. And what was wrong with them thirty years ago ain't gotten any better over time. So I'm faced with the choice of scrapping the boxes and starting from scratch. Or continuing to live with them as they are. Not much of a choice really. The boxes are structurally sound. Plus now they'll have a whole new bank of pretty doors to distract the eye. I opt for the face lift.
Emil tells me that every so often we have to take a look at our lives much the same as I was lookin' at those cabinets. Dump the useless stuff that'll constantly need fixin' until it finally tears you down. Keep the stuff that works. And repair the things you'll need for the rest of your life. Life's full of choices. Most of them small. Once in a while a big one comes along. The big ones tend to lean toward dumping habits that're way too heavy in the fun factor. Maybe it's a Minnesota thing but it sure seems like too much fun's a direct line to too much trouble. Also seems like my biggest decisions called for me to do something I didn't really want to do. Thirty years ago Emil pointed out my big time shortcomings. But didn't tell me what to do. That was up to me to figure out. He doesn't give personal advice. Says if you want that, go and write Dear Abby. Oh he's got his opinions alright. Also knows everyone has the key to their own truth and he doesn't say any more than "figure it out boy."
By the way, maybe he can tell me where he was when I was out on the water today. Lookin' back on it, the only things going through my head were boat control, where to throw the next cast, the location of the mini-channel into Mann lake and the growing beauty of the Fall around me. No Emil anywhere. Water was cold. Couple of turtle heads on the water. One a honkin' snapper. Ugly. Scary. Doesn't matter that I know what they look like, snapper's still scare me. Like they're sizing me up to dump the boat and then eat me.
I guess it was okay that he left me alone. The wind was up. Wasn't supposed to be but it was. Didn't need an old geezer jabberin' away and not helping with the paddling. Baby's not a big lake in the Canadian sense. Doesn't make a mile and a half paddle into borderline white caps any easier. I'd come to fish for muskies and by gar I was gonna do it the right way. Thus the paddle to the far upwind end of the lake. Tried my best to J-stroke a straight line with little success. Regardless, forty minutes later I found myself in the calm with the lake to myself. Putzed briefly with the fly rod then reached for the heavy iron. A bit of a melodramatic description but what the hell, I was puttin' on my muskie face (believe that calls for heavy metal in the background. Never liked heavy metal. Guess I've got a problem).
Don't like bait casting reels. Learned to cast with one. Also learned to dislike them at the same time. To me they're mostly bird nests with an occasional good cast thrown in once in a while just to tempt me. So I'm using a fair sized spinning reel spooled with thirty pound Suffix braided line. Don't like leaders either. A heavy duty ball bearing snap swivel suits me fine. If I hook a muskie I'll probably lose it. Don't mind that one bit. If someday it becomes a problem, I'll make my own leader. The rod on the other hand, is the real deal. Seven foot graphite heavy, suited for big fish. Am throwing, what else?, a homemade, big-assed spinner with a gaudy, jumbo bucktail. Bright days, bright lures. And, oh Lordy, do it go a long way when I flang it. Throw it so hard the canoe bounces. There's two hundred yards of line on the spool and it's half gone when the spinner hits the water. So much fun watchin' the spinner disappear over the horizon I don't much care if the muskies ignore it.
On the way up the lake I was looking for the connecting channel into Mann. Didn't find it. Passed a couple of rubble rock bars that looked like smallmouth territory. Definitely prop busters. One of the beauties of my solo is being able to float it so long as there's two inches of water beneath. No problem. The bars gave me at least four over the biggest boulders. On the way back I switched to my smaller rod. But no bass for me. On the upside I did find the channel. Just like it was described. Six inches of water and a bridge to pass under with about the same clearance as a large culvert. A ranger bass boat'd plug it up like Homer Simpson crawling through an open window.
I'd headed into Mann for the bass. Had read Mann was smallmouth heaven. Where I thought they'd be was another land of impossibility for the solo. There the wind'd had the length of the lake to build up a head of steam. Five minutes of boat control per cast seemed awful low on the fun scale. So I diddled along a partially protected shore where I kept company with the yellowing birches and a few largemouth and pike. Boring story but kinda fun in the doing. My way of saying, "You had to be there."
Emil finally showed his face on the drive home. Didn't take but a minute and we were off on one of our piss and moan sessions. Those gum beaters can be about most anything. In particular it's our way of lettin' off steam so's our heads don't blow off. Don't want that to happen seein' as how gray matter's particular hard to clean off the upholstery. The smart, upside of us doin' all our complaining when we're alone is keepin' other people out of the conversation. They'd fixate on the holes and miss the sense completely. Says his life's a contradiction from the get-go and naturally his opinions follow in line. Emil says he's never met anyone who's completely right about anything. If they think they are, the odds are they're close to totally wrong. Balance will out. So if what we say ain't completely kosher, don't worry about it. We sure as heck don't.
Lately we've brought up the Draft. In my book Draft is always capitalized. If you'd been Drafted and ended up in Vietnam, you'd capitalize it also. Emil, he volunteered for the Navy back in WWII. I can understand that. Might have done the same thing myself. His war made a lot more sense than mine. Back in the '60s the Draft had grown to be a dirty word. Both in civilian life and in the military. Us Draftees didn't like what'd happened to us and had no problem sharing our attitude with the Army. Nobody liked it anymore so the Draft was dumped. Good riddance said we.
The years passed. Talkin' with a good friend of mine the Draft reared its ugly head once again. My friend had a Conscientious Objector deferment during Vietnam and wasn't drafted. But he'd served two years in the Peace Corps as alternate service. I admired that. Funny what forty years can do to a person's perspective. Both of us agin the Draft in the past. Now both of us for it. But not the Draft of the old days. A new Draft in which everyone has to serve. By everyone we mean everyone. Right out of high school. Only it wouldn't be just a military draft. Each person would have a choice from a variety of public services. A hint of the CCC's back during the Depression. No free ride. Each and every man and woman jack puttin' in two years serving their fellow man for a pittance of pay. Even Uncle Emil thought that was a good idea. Two years doin' some form of grunt work'd give a person a different outlook on life. 'Specially if that two years didn't put a bullet in you.
Talk of a Draft got Emil off on a teamwork tangent. And of course that brought up WWII, the big one:
"Seems like the only time we can rise above all our senseless bickering over nothing - like a couple of caged parakeets peckin' each other in the head for no better reason than someone happens to be passin' by - is when we're gettin' the bejeezus pounded out of us like in The War. That whole situation was scary. Real scary. Made you forget who was a Republican and who was a Democrat. So bad yet it pulled us out of the Depression. But even during the war years there were idiots gettin' ready for the after-war rush.
Jesus, Markie boy I wish I could figure it all out. Been a couple of million years since we climbed down from the tree and we ain't got a clue how to make it work so's everyone gets their fair share. You'd think somewhere along the line a group of people'd get together and come up with a system. But I sure ain't seen it. And if I did, I sure didn't recognize it."
I had to interrupt as we pulled in the driveway. A thought had come to me. A memory of something I'd read a couple of days earlier. The idea that some mystics believe we are doomed to relive our lives, ad infinitum. Reading it sent a shiver up my spine. Having to live it all over again was fine with me. Like I'd written earlier, us baby-boomers have lived golden lives in a golden time. Vietnam sucked but I'd survived. No problem. The good outweighed the bad in my life about a hundred to one. The thrill of falling in love again, all of it. Do it over in a heartbeat.
Emil cut in as the canoe was being unloaded. "How's about we do some real fishin' tomorrow? Shoulda listened to me today. And not paddled off like you knew what the hell you were doing with a muskie rod in the first place. By the way, did you brew a fresh pot this morning?" It was all I could do to give him the evil eye. On the other hand tomorrow sounded like a fine time to me.
Next day, got in a bike ride, finished the cabinets and had an early supper. Daylight was beginning to wind down for the year. The long evenings of Summer were in the past and my time on the water missed them a lot. No six o'clock dinners for me if I wanted two hours of fishin'. The lake I was heading to was in the backside of fly-over country in fly-over country. Been there many a time and only shared the water once. The drive in's always worth the price of admission. Four miles of pavement. Three of gravel. Another of pavement. Finally sand winding down to two track, unimproved, travel at your own risk. The kind of forestry trail that makes you think about your tires. The ups and downs are a jumble of rocks. Peeking over the hood at a walking pace avoiding the sidewall slicers. It's a continual zig-zag on a woods lined track. Don't want to have to throw on the spare back in there. When she levels out, the sand is oil pan deep. Gun it through the last stretch. Takes as long to cover the final mile and a half as it does the first nine. Deer, raccoons, hawks, fox and one crazy yellow lab own this last stretch. And maybe a single silver back gorilla. Not absolutely sure of the last one but my old Jeep had a chip in the plastic grill from a slung bunch of bananas. And I know for sure it wasn't me that slung them bananas. You be the judge.
The road ends at a line of boulders. Not huge but at least five hundred pounds per. My best guess was the gorilla put 'em there. Way too big for even the local, corn fed tree choppers. Those boulders definitely keep the Ranger boat riff-raff out. From the line to the water's about a city block. Or about forty rods for us plastic canoe totin' fellers. One trip down with the gear. A second with the canoe. You'd be amazed at the number of times I've been out for fishin' and found myself staring out at the water knowing something was wrong. Then snap my fingers and go back for the boat. Definite signs of ATV travel and thickets of fall wildflowers. One a cluster of what look like four foot tall purple asters. The wonder of the World Wide Web tells me they were probably New England Asters. New England? Must be lost. Never seen 'em before. Woulda taken a photo but my camera batteries were dead. Be mostly prepared is my motto.
The lake. She's a tiny one. The Minnesota DNR Lake Survey only hit here once. And that was back in the '60s. Said there wasn't but bullheads suckin' snot off the bottom and when you see the lake, that's about how it looks. Like an overstuffed farm pond. Somewhere, somehow that all changed. There's a single cabin on the north end hidden back in the trees so's you can't see it from the water. Had it been my cabin, I'd have thrown in some bass and panfish. Seems as though they were of a like mind. A fine little fishin' hole. Most of the bass are small. Once in a while you'll hook up with a four pounder. The sunnies are of fair size, some around a pound. Throw in a few perch and the occasional pike. For a small lure thrower in a puddle jumpin' canoe it's always worth the drive.
Shaped more or less like a bow tie. The south bay's knee deep shallow, the north drops to eighteen feet. Good cabbage beds scattered throughout. There just doesn't seem to be enough room for all the fish, so there's always a lot of bass and sunnies in places no self-respecting game fish would ever occupy. Six inches deep with zip for cover and structure. But they're there and if you move at Mother Nature's pace so as not to scare 'em, they'll take small spinners, dry flies and, believe it or not, a tiny plastic tipped jig suspended three inches below a bobber. Almost the innocence of virgin water. Even I can catch fish like a master here.
On a typical day you'll see deer come down to the shore to drink, ears perked up like antennae. Bald eagles, osprey, kingfishers darting along the shore. And the beaver who always snaps my head around when he whacks the water to let every living thing in Christendom know the Great White Fisherman is stalking the area. Today there are twenty-two swans in the south bay. I know because I'm a counting fool. Can't help it, I was born that way. I talk quietly to them. Keep my distance. Don't they understand I'm no threat? But they get a runnin' and honkin' start and are soon airborne. Off to some other small slew. Maybe even Deadman.
To this point Emil's kept his tongue. Too much to see I guess. He never knew this county during his outdoor days. But he likes it. Tells me it's all in the smell. "The right spot'll always bring me back. This here little puddle puts me in those places I fished without the stink of a motor. The blue cloud and rainbow water of gas and two-cycle oil drowned out the cedars and pines. When it's quiet enough to hear the ripple of bitty waves at a half mile, I like to be able to smell the water and trees also. Made me feel more alive back then. Almost makes me feel alive now."
Emil had his plan of attack. I had mine. His was tried and true. Mine was a vision given to me by the Spirit of the Highly Improbable. But since it was me who had the paddle in hand, I outvoted the old fart one-zip. Paddled to the far northeast corner of the lake where glass was on the water. And as I snuck up on the shore, the bass treated me like a Duty Officer lookin' for volunteers. Rather than attack gifts falling from the sky, they ran from my descending spinner like it was an anti-piscatorial bomb. Those bass were chickens for sure. Give up? Not me. I worked tight to shore, out from shore and followed the weed line where it dropped off into deeper water. Nada. Could of been an embarrassment but I've screwed up enough in my 64 years to realize my level of imperfection in many fields. 'Specially in front of an uncle who isn't really there. So I sucked it up and went with Emil's idea.
Of course it worked. Tucked the shaded west shore and let the tiniest of zephyrs carry me to bass after bass. All in a few inches of water. So shallow you'd think their backs'd be stickin' above the surface. Oh yeah, one pike, pushin' thirty inches. I know there's a big one in here somewhere. Been bit off by a heavy, slow moving weight when fishin' monofilament. The pike in the lake spook me. Lotta baitfish to chow down on. And northerns are an amorous lot. Numbers go up, other fish go down. Someday it's all pike. Seen it happen before.
Emil's nice enough to not 'told ya so' me. Pullin' into shore all he said was, "That was my idea of fun. Great night. Did enough catchin' to say we got some."
Emil tells me there's a time for everything. Maybe he stole that idea from the Old Testament but most of my ideas have come from books. So why not Emil? What he was driving at when he first brought it up during my early post-Vietnam years, brought a smile to my face. Believe me, it wasn't a smile of agreement. You see, he was driving on one road and I was hearing on another. Another communication problem back in the age of the Generation Gap. Pondering that conversation, I suspect he was saying something simple and profound. But that's not what I was picking up on. You see, I was a hot shot with long hair, a college degree, a tour in Vietnam and a protest cat to boot. New generation, new way of seeing life. All gonna be better when we take over. Most of all I had this thing about Lifers. Picked it up in the Army where FTA was a big deal to us Draftees. We tended to look upon any soldier who'd re-upped as a Lifer. A short haired, flag wavin' SOB who'd no doubt shed a tear at the end of the movie Patton and then re-upped for the cheap booze at the NCO Club.
After I got out I felt a moral need to protest the War, mostly 'cause I was pissed about having been in the Army in the first place. That's when I got to meet some of the movers and shakers of the anti-war movement in Minnesota. In their own way they were as big a bunch of assholes as the Lifers in the Army. Seemed to have a pecking order as to who was against the War for the longest. They gave me the feeling they were still fighting the revolution with the Red Army in 1917 or manning the barricades of Paris in 1848. In truth they hadn't been anywhere or done anything as far as I could see. They were against the war and abhorred the fact that the American Army was fighting its war with way too many Blacks and poor people. At the same time they fought like hell to keep their deferments. So who did they think was going to get drafted? Wars are always fought by the poor.
So, back to Emil. He was a WWII veteran. I sure knew where they were coming from. Short hair, the straight line, my way or the highway, love it or leave it with a flag decal in the rear window of the station wagon. But if I'd taken the time to give Emil's Nomad a closer look I'd of seen there wasn't a sticker on it anywhere. Maybe Emil hadn't landed on the beaches but he'd been blown out of the water and dog paddled with the dead. He knew life was a gift not to be wasted. And that we lived in a time and place that was blessed. He didn't ever talk about the war, was glad he went and wouldn't go again even if his life depended on it. He had his shit together and I couldn't see it.
What was it he was saying? While my mind wandered, Emil had moved on. I think the angle was still about a time for everything. As I drift back in he's pontificatin', " Seems like everyone has their own idea of what constitutes the best buzz. Changes as you get older I guess. The wine sippers have their bouquet, the beer guzzlers their hoppiness. There's pot heads, coke sniffers, what-have-you. Hard to keep up with all the bad habits these days. Now if you want my two cents, absolutely nothin' beats a good cup of coffee, a long road and someone you like to talk with ridin' shotgun."
When I first heard that spiel I wrote him off as over the hill and then some. That was a long time ago. Times change. Nowadays I've come to see his point. Might have something to do with being about as old as he was back then. I suppose part of me knew it all along. Used to be a toast dunker when I was a kid. Best time of the day in the Delta - didn't take much to be a best time of day in The Nam - was just before sunset. We'd be set up a short hump from our night position. Finishing off our supper break. Roll the pant legs up, shoot the breeze. 'Bout the time the sun was on the tree line tops, I'd fire up the cappuccino. Yeah, we carried an espresso maker with us. The big brass kind that weighed about three hundred pounds. We'd make the newest grunt in town hump the beast just so's a couple of us caffein aficionados could have the pleasure of a fine brew. Sorry about that, sometimes my fingers get carried away. Reality was instant coffee, creamer, sugar, cocoa and water heated up over a small chunk of match-lit C-4 in a c-ration can stove. All provided free of charge by the U.S. taxpayers. I'd sit back, sip the brew, savor a last smoke and watch the sun go down on another day in paradise. Night sucked but that cup of coffee and cigarette made it almost worthwhile.
I guess what I'm trying to say's that Emil wasn't so dumb. Maybe the simple pleasures of life are the best. Like being up at the cabin for another three day stretch of lonesome. Bein' by myself lasts for as long as it takes to make a pot of coffee. When the first drop hits the pot, Emil will usually show up with his old Pure Oil cup in his hand. The one with the dark stains on the inside from either ten thousand cups of coffee or one too many lube jobs. Even though he's not really there I'll pore him a cup. Always too hot to drink. But that don't stop Emil. He'll blow across the cup three or four times. Slurp a little off the top, set the cup down and say, "Thasss good."
Uncle Emil's not the type to pop up when others are around. He likes the 'tween times as he calls 'em. Could be he's selfish with my time. Could be that he doesn't talk loudly and no longer hears as good as he used to. Quiet times are the best for him. The cabin, on the road, in the canoe on little out-of-the-way lakes. Or stomping his way through my dreams. Lordy, Lordy do he mess with my dreams now and then. The hard part is gettin' him to come out the inky end of my pen. Then he gets all shy and hidey. He's the smartest man I ever met. Can see through me and the BS of the world like he's lookin' out a window after Spring cleaning. But he's not all that easy to understand. Can be downright cryptic at times.
So it's a Sunday night. Am up here to fit and hang fourteen home made cabinet doors in the kitchen. The kitchen's not really a kitchen, just an area in the great room. The great room ain't really a great room either. Sixteen by twenty-two with a lofted ceiling. The doors are made from six boxes of prefinished, birch flooring that just happened to be sittin' on the sidewalk during a local small town celebration. I tried to walk on by. Almost did. But they called me back with the Siren Song of "Hello sailor. We're cheap, shiny, tongue and grooved - get it? - and will do anything you want for eighty cents a board-foot." How could I resist? Yup, no one wanted them as much as me. Took a lot of work changing those trollops into something I could bring home and feel comfortable with. Didn't turn out perfect but Emil says they look exactly like something I'd do. Not sure what he meant by that but I'll take it as a compliment. All the prep work is done. Tomorrow the hanging.
Ah yes, there is a plan for tomorrow. Work in the morning, eat lunch and be on the water by 2 p.m. Stay there 'til 5:30. Once I'm out the door and hit the highway there's a choice to be made. Left's an out-of-the-way carry-in lake just bustin' a gut with small bass. Right's toward a small, not quite a thousand acre, muskie lake. I've had this thing stuck in my craw, wherever and whatever the hell a craw is, to someday be a fly rod and solo canoe muskie fisherman. I intimidate myself with the thought. So much so that I ain't done it yet. Actual muskie anglers tell me I'd end up in the water with the fish. Even with the best of luck, what would I do with a thirty-five pound fish when it got tired of towing around a forty pound boat? Probably laugh a lot, then cut the line. Whichever way I go, Emil says he's coming along. Bass or muskie? Emil says so long as I keep the lake under the canoe, it doesn't matter which way we go. As for me, I'm thinkin' boat-towers.
It happens most every time I get up here by myself. Monday morning dawns and the plan is in flux. Breakfast done, forty-five degrees out, fire in the stove and more I want to do than will fit in twelve hours of daylight. I could go at it like a banshee. Done that many times in my younger years. A lot gets done at the expense of enjoyment. I'm retired. Time to get stuff done at a fartin' around pace. A lot still gets done but I get a feeling of greater depth out of it. If I don't fish, no problem. And I'm actually looking forward to hanging the doors. I'm where I want to be, doing what I want to do.
Life's a lot like homemade cabinets. Need I say more? I took my time building the new doors. They're not perfect but had I been shooting for perfect, they'd have gone on the floor like they were intended in the first place. The intention is to pull the old, warped doors off and just pop the new ones in. But I don't trust myself and my measurements. Whenever I usually do things involving wood and tools there's a near infinite amount of running back and forth checking and double checking involved. This time there was no running at all. Measured the door openings at the cabin and built the doors at home. I know the measurements are right but at the same time, know they're wrong.
The doors themselves are like miniature, rectangular floors in a frame that is joined together with a biscuit joiner. The joiner was state of the art when I bought it. But when I bought it Ronnie Reagan was still in his first term and the joiner is now an antique. As I wade into the job it turns out some of the problems of the old set had to do with the cabinets themselves. And what was wrong with them thirty years ago ain't gotten any better over time. So I'm faced with the choice of scrapping the boxes and starting from scratch. Or continuing to live with them as they are. Not much of a choice really. The boxes are structurally sound. Plus now they'll have a whole new bank of pretty doors to distract the eye. I opt for the face lift.
Emil tells me that every so often we have to take a look at our lives much the same as I was lookin' at those cabinets. Dump the useless stuff that'll constantly need fixin' until it finally tears you down. Keep the stuff that works. And repair the things you'll need for the rest of your life. Life's full of choices. Most of them small. Once in a while a big one comes along. The big ones tend to lean toward dumping habits that're way too heavy in the fun factor. Maybe it's a Minnesota thing but it sure seems like too much fun's a direct line to too much trouble. Also seems like my biggest decisions called for me to do something I didn't really want to do. Thirty years ago Emil pointed out my big time shortcomings. But didn't tell me what to do. That was up to me to figure out. He doesn't give personal advice. Says if you want that, go and write Dear Abby. Oh he's got his opinions alright. Also knows everyone has the key to their own truth and he doesn't say any more than "figure it out boy."
By the way, maybe he can tell me where he was when I was out on the water today. Lookin' back on it, the only things going through my head were boat control, where to throw the next cast, the location of the mini-channel into Mann lake and the growing beauty of the Fall around me. No Emil anywhere. Water was cold. Couple of turtle heads on the water. One a honkin' snapper. Ugly. Scary. Doesn't matter that I know what they look like, snapper's still scare me. Like they're sizing me up to dump the boat and then eat me.
I guess it was okay that he left me alone. The wind was up. Wasn't supposed to be but it was. Didn't need an old geezer jabberin' away and not helping with the paddling. Baby's not a big lake in the Canadian sense. Doesn't make a mile and a half paddle into borderline white caps any easier. I'd come to fish for muskies and by gar I was gonna do it the right way. Thus the paddle to the far upwind end of the lake. Tried my best to J-stroke a straight line with little success. Regardless, forty minutes later I found myself in the calm with the lake to myself. Putzed briefly with the fly rod then reached for the heavy iron. A bit of a melodramatic description but what the hell, I was puttin' on my muskie face (believe that calls for heavy metal in the background. Never liked heavy metal. Guess I've got a problem).
Don't like bait casting reels. Learned to cast with one. Also learned to dislike them at the same time. To me they're mostly bird nests with an occasional good cast thrown in once in a while just to tempt me. So I'm using a fair sized spinning reel spooled with thirty pound Suffix braided line. Don't like leaders either. A heavy duty ball bearing snap swivel suits me fine. If I hook a muskie I'll probably lose it. Don't mind that one bit. If someday it becomes a problem, I'll make my own leader. The rod on the other hand, is the real deal. Seven foot graphite heavy, suited for big fish. Am throwing, what else?, a homemade, big-assed spinner with a gaudy, jumbo bucktail. Bright days, bright lures. And, oh Lordy, do it go a long way when I flang it. Throw it so hard the canoe bounces. There's two hundred yards of line on the spool and it's half gone when the spinner hits the water. So much fun watchin' the spinner disappear over the horizon I don't much care if the muskies ignore it.
On the way up the lake I was looking for the connecting channel into Mann. Didn't find it. Passed a couple of rubble rock bars that looked like smallmouth territory. Definitely prop busters. One of the beauties of my solo is being able to float it so long as there's two inches of water beneath. No problem. The bars gave me at least four over the biggest boulders. On the way back I switched to my smaller rod. But no bass for me. On the upside I did find the channel. Just like it was described. Six inches of water and a bridge to pass under with about the same clearance as a large culvert. A ranger bass boat'd plug it up like Homer Simpson crawling through an open window.
I'd headed into Mann for the bass. Had read Mann was smallmouth heaven. Where I thought they'd be was another land of impossibility for the solo. There the wind'd had the length of the lake to build up a head of steam. Five minutes of boat control per cast seemed awful low on the fun scale. So I diddled along a partially protected shore where I kept company with the yellowing birches and a few largemouth and pike. Boring story but kinda fun in the doing. My way of saying, "You had to be there."
Emil finally showed his face on the drive home. Didn't take but a minute and we were off on one of our piss and moan sessions. Those gum beaters can be about most anything. In particular it's our way of lettin' off steam so's our heads don't blow off. Don't want that to happen seein' as how gray matter's particular hard to clean off the upholstery. The smart, upside of us doin' all our complaining when we're alone is keepin' other people out of the conversation. They'd fixate on the holes and miss the sense completely. Says his life's a contradiction from the get-go and naturally his opinions follow in line. Emil says he's never met anyone who's completely right about anything. If they think they are, the odds are they're close to totally wrong. Balance will out. So if what we say ain't completely kosher, don't worry about it. We sure as heck don't.
Lately we've brought up the Draft. In my book Draft is always capitalized. If you'd been Drafted and ended up in Vietnam, you'd capitalize it also. Emil, he volunteered for the Navy back in WWII. I can understand that. Might have done the same thing myself. His war made a lot more sense than mine. Back in the '60s the Draft had grown to be a dirty word. Both in civilian life and in the military. Us Draftees didn't like what'd happened to us and had no problem sharing our attitude with the Army. Nobody liked it anymore so the Draft was dumped. Good riddance said we.
The years passed. Talkin' with a good friend of mine the Draft reared its ugly head once again. My friend had a Conscientious Objector deferment during Vietnam and wasn't drafted. But he'd served two years in the Peace Corps as alternate service. I admired that. Funny what forty years can do to a person's perspective. Both of us agin the Draft in the past. Now both of us for it. But not the Draft of the old days. A new Draft in which everyone has to serve. By everyone we mean everyone. Right out of high school. Only it wouldn't be just a military draft. Each person would have a choice from a variety of public services. A hint of the CCC's back during the Depression. No free ride. Each and every man and woman jack puttin' in two years serving their fellow man for a pittance of pay. Even Uncle Emil thought that was a good idea. Two years doin' some form of grunt work'd give a person a different outlook on life. 'Specially if that two years didn't put a bullet in you.
Talk of a Draft got Emil off on a teamwork tangent. And of course that brought up WWII, the big one:
"Seems like the only time we can rise above all our senseless bickering over nothing - like a couple of caged parakeets peckin' each other in the head for no better reason than someone happens to be passin' by - is when we're gettin' the bejeezus pounded out of us like in The War. That whole situation was scary. Real scary. Made you forget who was a Republican and who was a Democrat. So bad yet it pulled us out of the Depression. But even during the war years there were idiots gettin' ready for the after-war rush.
Jesus, Markie boy I wish I could figure it all out. Been a couple of million years since we climbed down from the tree and we ain't got a clue how to make it work so's everyone gets their fair share. You'd think somewhere along the line a group of people'd get together and come up with a system. But I sure ain't seen it. And if I did, I sure didn't recognize it."
I had to interrupt as we pulled in the driveway. A thought had come to me. A memory of something I'd read a couple of days earlier. The idea that some mystics believe we are doomed to relive our lives, ad infinitum. Reading it sent a shiver up my spine. Having to live it all over again was fine with me. Like I'd written earlier, us baby-boomers have lived golden lives in a golden time. Vietnam sucked but I'd survived. No problem. The good outweighed the bad in my life about a hundred to one. The thrill of falling in love again, all of it. Do it over in a heartbeat.
Emil cut in as the canoe was being unloaded. "How's about we do some real fishin' tomorrow? Shoulda listened to me today. And not paddled off like you knew what the hell you were doing with a muskie rod in the first place. By the way, did you brew a fresh pot this morning?" It was all I could do to give him the evil eye. On the other hand tomorrow sounded like a fine time to me.
Next day, got in a bike ride, finished the cabinets and had an early supper. Daylight was beginning to wind down for the year. The long evenings of Summer were in the past and my time on the water missed them a lot. No six o'clock dinners for me if I wanted two hours of fishin'. The lake I was heading to was in the backside of fly-over country in fly-over country. Been there many a time and only shared the water once. The drive in's always worth the price of admission. Four miles of pavement. Three of gravel. Another of pavement. Finally sand winding down to two track, unimproved, travel at your own risk. The kind of forestry trail that makes you think about your tires. The ups and downs are a jumble of rocks. Peeking over the hood at a walking pace avoiding the sidewall slicers. It's a continual zig-zag on a woods lined track. Don't want to have to throw on the spare back in there. When she levels out, the sand is oil pan deep. Gun it through the last stretch. Takes as long to cover the final mile and a half as it does the first nine. Deer, raccoons, hawks, fox and one crazy yellow lab own this last stretch. And maybe a single silver back gorilla. Not absolutely sure of the last one but my old Jeep had a chip in the plastic grill from a slung bunch of bananas. And I know for sure it wasn't me that slung them bananas. You be the judge.
The road ends at a line of boulders. Not huge but at least five hundred pounds per. My best guess was the gorilla put 'em there. Way too big for even the local, corn fed tree choppers. Those boulders definitely keep the Ranger boat riff-raff out. From the line to the water's about a city block. Or about forty rods for us plastic canoe totin' fellers. One trip down with the gear. A second with the canoe. You'd be amazed at the number of times I've been out for fishin' and found myself staring out at the water knowing something was wrong. Then snap my fingers and go back for the boat. Definite signs of ATV travel and thickets of fall wildflowers. One a cluster of what look like four foot tall purple asters. The wonder of the World Wide Web tells me they were probably New England Asters. New England? Must be lost. Never seen 'em before. Woulda taken a photo but my camera batteries were dead. Be mostly prepared is my motto.
The lake. She's a tiny one. The Minnesota DNR Lake Survey only hit here once. And that was back in the '60s. Said there wasn't but bullheads suckin' snot off the bottom and when you see the lake, that's about how it looks. Like an overstuffed farm pond. Somewhere, somehow that all changed. There's a single cabin on the north end hidden back in the trees so's you can't see it from the water. Had it been my cabin, I'd have thrown in some bass and panfish. Seems as though they were of a like mind. A fine little fishin' hole. Most of the bass are small. Once in a while you'll hook up with a four pounder. The sunnies are of fair size, some around a pound. Throw in a few perch and the occasional pike. For a small lure thrower in a puddle jumpin' canoe it's always worth the drive.
Shaped more or less like a bow tie. The south bay's knee deep shallow, the north drops to eighteen feet. Good cabbage beds scattered throughout. There just doesn't seem to be enough room for all the fish, so there's always a lot of bass and sunnies in places no self-respecting game fish would ever occupy. Six inches deep with zip for cover and structure. But they're there and if you move at Mother Nature's pace so as not to scare 'em, they'll take small spinners, dry flies and, believe it or not, a tiny plastic tipped jig suspended three inches below a bobber. Almost the innocence of virgin water. Even I can catch fish like a master here.
On a typical day you'll see deer come down to the shore to drink, ears perked up like antennae. Bald eagles, osprey, kingfishers darting along the shore. And the beaver who always snaps my head around when he whacks the water to let every living thing in Christendom know the Great White Fisherman is stalking the area. Today there are twenty-two swans in the south bay. I know because I'm a counting fool. Can't help it, I was born that way. I talk quietly to them. Keep my distance. Don't they understand I'm no threat? But they get a runnin' and honkin' start and are soon airborne. Off to some other small slew. Maybe even Deadman.
To this point Emil's kept his tongue. Too much to see I guess. He never knew this county during his outdoor days. But he likes it. Tells me it's all in the smell. "The right spot'll always bring me back. This here little puddle puts me in those places I fished without the stink of a motor. The blue cloud and rainbow water of gas and two-cycle oil drowned out the cedars and pines. When it's quiet enough to hear the ripple of bitty waves at a half mile, I like to be able to smell the water and trees also. Made me feel more alive back then. Almost makes me feel alive now."
Emil had his plan of attack. I had mine. His was tried and true. Mine was a vision given to me by the Spirit of the Highly Improbable. But since it was me who had the paddle in hand, I outvoted the old fart one-zip. Paddled to the far northeast corner of the lake where glass was on the water. And as I snuck up on the shore, the bass treated me like a Duty Officer lookin' for volunteers. Rather than attack gifts falling from the sky, they ran from my descending spinner like it was an anti-piscatorial bomb. Those bass were chickens for sure. Give up? Not me. I worked tight to shore, out from shore and followed the weed line where it dropped off into deeper water. Nada. Could of been an embarrassment but I've screwed up enough in my 64 years to realize my level of imperfection in many fields. 'Specially in front of an uncle who isn't really there. So I sucked it up and went with Emil's idea.
Of course it worked. Tucked the shaded west shore and let the tiniest of zephyrs carry me to bass after bass. All in a few inches of water. So shallow you'd think their backs'd be stickin' above the surface. Oh yeah, one pike, pushin' thirty inches. I know there's a big one in here somewhere. Been bit off by a heavy, slow moving weight when fishin' monofilament. The pike in the lake spook me. Lotta baitfish to chow down on. And northerns are an amorous lot. Numbers go up, other fish go down. Someday it's all pike. Seen it happen before.
Emil's nice enough to not 'told ya so' me. Pullin' into shore all he said was, "That was my idea of fun. Great night. Did enough catchin' to say we got some."
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Emil and the Long Rod (in progress for maybe a long time)
My Uncle Emil has a way of paddling though my mind when I'm out on the water. 'Specially on a day like today out on the Nason Lakes. No way that's their real name. Can't be lettin' on to that. And the real one doesn't mean diddly to me. Nason does. Turned me on to them. Doubt he knew what he was brewing when he brought them up. An unexpected gift from my point of view. They turned out to be a treasure. The small kind that makes a life worth living. Like finding a stand of wild asparagus in a ditch, just right for the pickin'. Or the Perseid Meteor Shower. First time we saw that was in Northern Wisconsin the night before the Paavo Nuurmi Marathon, "Did you see that? Wow! There's another." And so on 'til the mosquitoes drove us into the tent. But the Nasons keep on giving. They're there waiting whenever I want to head on up and pay 'em a visit. Have to share them with strangers, usually locals, once in a while but mostly they're mine all by my lonesome. I'd take you there but we'd have to share blood. Or at least be respected in-laws. Even then I blind fold them when we leave the cabin.
Most anyone would drive right by those pot holes in a swamp. Unexpectedly deep ones. Don't know whether they're sinkholes or the result of glacial chips - actually big-assed chunks - that fell off during the retreat, smacked a dent in the planet, then quietly melted (got that image from a fellow pall bearer at Greg's funeral). Then sat there patiently for a few thousand years and waited for some good ol' Bohunk Minnesotans to throw in a handful of pike, bass and panfish. And to my eternal gratitude, that came to pass.
Couldn't think of a better place to spend the tenth anniversary of 9-11. Had my share of needless, violent death in Vietnam. When it comes to crap like that and the World Trade Center I don't have to be told to remember. Problem is I can't forget. Better to be out on the Nasons up in the Northland. Mid 80's and near glass on the water. A maple here and there starting to put on fall colors, the sumac already blaze red.
I'm in the puddle-jumper, a fourteen and a half foot solo. Fun, fun boat. A challenge to move in a straight line but you can spin 'er like a top. Only canoe I've sat in that actually does float like a leaf on water. Doesn't so much move on the surface as she slips. Takes no more than a puff of breeze and you're headin' down lake. Not so much a problem as it's an asset that I intend to make use of today. Appears I've got a plan in my pocket sayin' how me and the Nasons are gonna play today. Nobody along to come up with anything different. Not that I'm knocking fishin' with others but once in a while it's nice to screw up on my own.
Once in a while I do the smart thing. I'm itchin' to fish but I know the best tactic in a canoe is to paddle to the far end and fish my way back. In a general sense. No doubt there'll be variations on that theme. It's about fifteen minutes to the end of the deepest pool. Plenty of time to watch the world go by and let my mind travel about. Most of my life my mind and body have been in different places. Most of the movies I've seen were for my eyes only. I see the never was and talk to the dead all the time. Guess that makes me normal. So whether I let it or not, my mind is gonna drift.
Emil used to preach balance in his later years when I came to know him best. On a day like this one he'd often grow a subtle corner mouth smile. That was the signal telling the world his mind was churning something over. Wasn't any hurrying him through the process. Emil wouldn't speak his piece 'til the last word was put in order. Might not be poetry in the offing but whatever came out, it'd have to pass his test of worthiness. If she didn't work out right he'd toss it on the compost heap where it'd most likely provide fertile soil for new stuff to grow.
Took me a while and a lot of stupid 'something on your mind old man?' interruptions when his lips were curled, for me to finally learn to shut the hell up. Once in a rare while the curl would arrive hand-in-hand with a short, violent snot blast. Knew I was shortly in for a treat coupled with a quiet prayer, 'Lord, give me the power to see what he's seeing behind his eyes.' I knew for a fact it was downright disgusting, sexist and completely incorrect in any sense. The kind of thing that'd get him fired in modern society. But for sure it would be funny as all get-out. At least to him. With a little luck and no coaxing he'd let me in on what he saw. Most always, lacking his mental vision, it was hit or miss as to how funny it'd strike me.
Anyhow, midway down the second pool, Emil comes out of nowhere, enters my thoughts and recalls a fishing conversation we had years ago, " Seems I spent most of my youngest years wishin' I was older. And a fair amount of my older years wishin' I was younger. In the middle, wantin' to be somewhere else most of the time. Somewhere along the line there must have been a balance point. Coulda been a Wednesday in '40, about 2:37 in the morning. Snapped awake with a big old grin on my face. For about a half minute everything seemed just right. Woke up the next morning thinking my best years were behind me and I'd pissed 'em away. The 'someday I'm gonna' turned into 'if I had to do it over again' in about ten minutes and I'd nearly slept through the best part. 'Course I'm makin' most of that up. Well, not all of it. Then I met your mother, the war came along and I had to go like the blazes just to keep up. There's a point in there somewhere. Beats me just what it is. Guess it takes more than one lifetime to figure things out."
Back on the Nasons I picked up the fly rod. It's a putzy way to fish. On flat water a spinning rod covers a whole lot more water and catches more fish. But fooling them with a homemade popper's a lot more fun. Wasn't much foolin' them today. Obviously the fault of the fish. Lately I've been in to dickin' around with a six and a half foot glass rod by Wright and McGill. Twenty three bucks of noodleness. The cheap end of the cheap end. What I'd originally been looking for was an affordable and serviceable bamboo rod. Guffaw! Affordable and bamboo are oxymoronic. Had the money for a Heddon Black Beauty, a work horse of the '40s and '50s, but my form of putz didn't justify a piece of storied history. The W and G has been built since the '50s. Likewise the Pflueger Medalist reel holding the line. The initial idea was to have a fly rod for use in the back of the canoe that was short enough to both cast and, at the same time, avoid ripping an ear off the unsuspecting innocent up front. The six and a half footer fit the bill nicely.
For some unknown reason, holding the rod with my index finger pointing up the pole, ala Lee Wulff, works like a charm. At least as far as the casting goes. The fish don't seem to agree. The popper's a small bass size. Easy to throw with a nine foot rod. Not so with the short one in my hand. When I do get it out there all I'm hearin' is the constant 'chuk' of a bunch of too-little sunnies trying to suck down a bug bigger than their mouths. It's a neat sound but not what I'm hopin' for. What exactly am I hopin' for? Beyond what I've already got that is. There's food on the table, roof overhead, a family to love, sun above and I'm on my favorite lake. What I seem to be missing is a seven pound bass at the end of the little yellow noodle in my hand.
In shame and embarrassment I reach behind and switch rods. Maybe that bass is looking for a medium sized, homemade spinner. I've chickened out on the fly rod but am at least sticking with my plan of attack. Paddle tight to the calm side. Work it 'til the breeze finally takes me across the small bay and then work that. One of the pleasures of a thousand hours in a canoe is knowing there's nothing to worry about so long as the boat is right side up. So I keep fishing 'til there's no more lake. When I bump the shore it's time to paddle back across.
There I finally find a tight pocket of fish. The first fights like a small pike and I catch myself calling for it to surface like a bass. Yup, pike. Sucked it down. Spreaders out and it's quickly released. Then it's bam, bam, bam. A fistful of bass under two pounds. Nice to feel life tormenting on the end of the line.
Spent most of my time in the far pool. The fishing's not up to par but the sound of the sunnies chuking away makes it a good time. I like being able to hear the sound of fish sipping. Tells me up front that this is an out of the way corner of the world. One of Minnesota's graces is that such places still exist. Being able to hear a four inch fish try to eat a one inch popper is a gift plain and simple. Think about it. Nearly all of us live in a noisy, crowded world. Another story out here on the Nasons. Just me, the soft breeze, grasses and cattails.
The long rod came to me by way of Uncle Emil. Out in the boat he went with the standard rod and reel. But when his feet were on the shore or wading in the lake he always worked a fly rod. Saw him fool a dinner plate bluegill with a group of admiring fishermen standing close by. Not a one of them could do what he was doing and they knew it. In my mind the fly rod separated him from the crowd.
He nudged me in that direction when I was about twelve. Set me up with a casting bobber, beetle-bug and trout sized pork rind. We'd work the shoreline together. Most of the time he'd let me have the sweet spots. Seemed to get a big kick out of watching me fish. Maybe that was because he didn't have a son to do guy stuff with. Like peeing standing up. And doing something useless like fishing. It's a putzy, kid kind of activity that doesn't sit well with the way the world works. Not justifiable. Unless your sharing your time with a kid. Especially one with no father. Great excuse to be on the water.
Don't know how long he'd been fly fishing. Don't know why he started. Didn't know why he kept at it. To my way of not thinking, he just did it. And I thought it was an unquestionably beautiful act. In the early beetle-bug days I never thought to ask Emil if I could give it a try. Didn't think I'd take it up some day. Didn't think I wouldn't. But the seed was planted.
Bought my first fly rod at an Army-Navy surplus store. Eight feet of olive drab fiberglass complete with reel and genuine, weight forward floating line. Didn't take any lessons. Who took lessons for anything besides music back in '64? Besides, I was seventeen and already knew most of everything. Thankfully, my hours with Uncle Emil had put a wrinkle in my brain. So I knew enough to hold the rod by the fat end. And then just started buggy-whippin' it. Always had a good throwing arm and a natural instinct for using my body in the process. A few hundred casts moved me from dropping the fly on my head to feeling the rod load. When that revelation came about I started humming that puppy like there was no tomorrow. No ten to one old school casting for me! Load the rod and smoke it. Catching fish wasn't the point. Learning to lay the entire line out on the water was. No finesse at all. Big time line speed. It sure was fun.
The rod was stuffed away in my mom's garage when I went in the Army. Didn't pick one up again 'til the cabin was being built. We were near water and it seemed a necessity to resurrect the long rod. My daughter Annie and I spent three days together at the cabin when she was six. Outside of a woodtick that burrowed itself in her ear, we had a pretty good time. I'd say great time but Annie may remember differently. After a day of driving nails, for a six year old she was a demon with a framing hammer, the two of us would head to a nearby lake where we'd trespass on lakefront property for sale and there shore fish. That we were surrounded by blooming pink Ladyslippers was a nice touch. Off a small point we found a thicket of spawning bluegills. I'd flip an Adams to them with my fly rod. When one would impale itself, Annie would take over and reel in our dinner. Yup, Old Catch and Release turned into Catch and Kill right in front of his innocent little girl. Didn't know how she'd take it. In an effort to temper the process I said it was okay to kill the fish only if we ate them. A matter of respect. Probably I was making a bigger deal out of dinner than was necessary. We ate 'em all.
Most every winter I make a vow to get better at casting a fly. Brings to mind something Jimmy Carter said about wanting to become a better fly fisherman after leaving the presidency. Well, for me it ain't happened yet. I've lost the habit of wanting to be a good caster and get too hung up on catching fish. Ah, but the fishing season ain't over yet. There's still hope. Slim though that may be.
Most anyone would drive right by those pot holes in a swamp. Unexpectedly deep ones. Don't know whether they're sinkholes or the result of glacial chips - actually big-assed chunks - that fell off during the retreat, smacked a dent in the planet, then quietly melted (got that image from a fellow pall bearer at Greg's funeral). Then sat there patiently for a few thousand years and waited for some good ol' Bohunk Minnesotans to throw in a handful of pike, bass and panfish. And to my eternal gratitude, that came to pass.
Couldn't think of a better place to spend the tenth anniversary of 9-11. Had my share of needless, violent death in Vietnam. When it comes to crap like that and the World Trade Center I don't have to be told to remember. Problem is I can't forget. Better to be out on the Nasons up in the Northland. Mid 80's and near glass on the water. A maple here and there starting to put on fall colors, the sumac already blaze red.
I'm in the puddle-jumper, a fourteen and a half foot solo. Fun, fun boat. A challenge to move in a straight line but you can spin 'er like a top. Only canoe I've sat in that actually does float like a leaf on water. Doesn't so much move on the surface as she slips. Takes no more than a puff of breeze and you're headin' down lake. Not so much a problem as it's an asset that I intend to make use of today. Appears I've got a plan in my pocket sayin' how me and the Nasons are gonna play today. Nobody along to come up with anything different. Not that I'm knocking fishin' with others but once in a while it's nice to screw up on my own.
Once in a while I do the smart thing. I'm itchin' to fish but I know the best tactic in a canoe is to paddle to the far end and fish my way back. In a general sense. No doubt there'll be variations on that theme. It's about fifteen minutes to the end of the deepest pool. Plenty of time to watch the world go by and let my mind travel about. Most of my life my mind and body have been in different places. Most of the movies I've seen were for my eyes only. I see the never was and talk to the dead all the time. Guess that makes me normal. So whether I let it or not, my mind is gonna drift.
Emil used to preach balance in his later years when I came to know him best. On a day like this one he'd often grow a subtle corner mouth smile. That was the signal telling the world his mind was churning something over. Wasn't any hurrying him through the process. Emil wouldn't speak his piece 'til the last word was put in order. Might not be poetry in the offing but whatever came out, it'd have to pass his test of worthiness. If she didn't work out right he'd toss it on the compost heap where it'd most likely provide fertile soil for new stuff to grow.
Took me a while and a lot of stupid 'something on your mind old man?' interruptions when his lips were curled, for me to finally learn to shut the hell up. Once in a rare while the curl would arrive hand-in-hand with a short, violent snot blast. Knew I was shortly in for a treat coupled with a quiet prayer, 'Lord, give me the power to see what he's seeing behind his eyes.' I knew for a fact it was downright disgusting, sexist and completely incorrect in any sense. The kind of thing that'd get him fired in modern society. But for sure it would be funny as all get-out. At least to him. With a little luck and no coaxing he'd let me in on what he saw. Most always, lacking his mental vision, it was hit or miss as to how funny it'd strike me.
Anyhow, midway down the second pool, Emil comes out of nowhere, enters my thoughts and recalls a fishing conversation we had years ago, " Seems I spent most of my youngest years wishin' I was older. And a fair amount of my older years wishin' I was younger. In the middle, wantin' to be somewhere else most of the time. Somewhere along the line there must have been a balance point. Coulda been a Wednesday in '40, about 2:37 in the morning. Snapped awake with a big old grin on my face. For about a half minute everything seemed just right. Woke up the next morning thinking my best years were behind me and I'd pissed 'em away. The 'someday I'm gonna' turned into 'if I had to do it over again' in about ten minutes and I'd nearly slept through the best part. 'Course I'm makin' most of that up. Well, not all of it. Then I met your mother, the war came along and I had to go like the blazes just to keep up. There's a point in there somewhere. Beats me just what it is. Guess it takes more than one lifetime to figure things out."
Back on the Nasons I picked up the fly rod. It's a putzy way to fish. On flat water a spinning rod covers a whole lot more water and catches more fish. But fooling them with a homemade popper's a lot more fun. Wasn't much foolin' them today. Obviously the fault of the fish. Lately I've been in to dickin' around with a six and a half foot glass rod by Wright and McGill. Twenty three bucks of noodleness. The cheap end of the cheap end. What I'd originally been looking for was an affordable and serviceable bamboo rod. Guffaw! Affordable and bamboo are oxymoronic. Had the money for a Heddon Black Beauty, a work horse of the '40s and '50s, but my form of putz didn't justify a piece of storied history. The W and G has been built since the '50s. Likewise the Pflueger Medalist reel holding the line. The initial idea was to have a fly rod for use in the back of the canoe that was short enough to both cast and, at the same time, avoid ripping an ear off the unsuspecting innocent up front. The six and a half footer fit the bill nicely.
For some unknown reason, holding the rod with my index finger pointing up the pole, ala Lee Wulff, works like a charm. At least as far as the casting goes. The fish don't seem to agree. The popper's a small bass size. Easy to throw with a nine foot rod. Not so with the short one in my hand. When I do get it out there all I'm hearin' is the constant 'chuk' of a bunch of too-little sunnies trying to suck down a bug bigger than their mouths. It's a neat sound but not what I'm hopin' for. What exactly am I hopin' for? Beyond what I've already got that is. There's food on the table, roof overhead, a family to love, sun above and I'm on my favorite lake. What I seem to be missing is a seven pound bass at the end of the little yellow noodle in my hand.
In shame and embarrassment I reach behind and switch rods. Maybe that bass is looking for a medium sized, homemade spinner. I've chickened out on the fly rod but am at least sticking with my plan of attack. Paddle tight to the calm side. Work it 'til the breeze finally takes me across the small bay and then work that. One of the pleasures of a thousand hours in a canoe is knowing there's nothing to worry about so long as the boat is right side up. So I keep fishing 'til there's no more lake. When I bump the shore it's time to paddle back across.
There I finally find a tight pocket of fish. The first fights like a small pike and I catch myself calling for it to surface like a bass. Yup, pike. Sucked it down. Spreaders out and it's quickly released. Then it's bam, bam, bam. A fistful of bass under two pounds. Nice to feel life tormenting on the end of the line.
Spent most of my time in the far pool. The fishing's not up to par but the sound of the sunnies chuking away makes it a good time. I like being able to hear the sound of fish sipping. Tells me up front that this is an out of the way corner of the world. One of Minnesota's graces is that such places still exist. Being able to hear a four inch fish try to eat a one inch popper is a gift plain and simple. Think about it. Nearly all of us live in a noisy, crowded world. Another story out here on the Nasons. Just me, the soft breeze, grasses and cattails.
The long rod came to me by way of Uncle Emil. Out in the boat he went with the standard rod and reel. But when his feet were on the shore or wading in the lake he always worked a fly rod. Saw him fool a dinner plate bluegill with a group of admiring fishermen standing close by. Not a one of them could do what he was doing and they knew it. In my mind the fly rod separated him from the crowd.
He nudged me in that direction when I was about twelve. Set me up with a casting bobber, beetle-bug and trout sized pork rind. We'd work the shoreline together. Most of the time he'd let me have the sweet spots. Seemed to get a big kick out of watching me fish. Maybe that was because he didn't have a son to do guy stuff with. Like peeing standing up. And doing something useless like fishing. It's a putzy, kid kind of activity that doesn't sit well with the way the world works. Not justifiable. Unless your sharing your time with a kid. Especially one with no father. Great excuse to be on the water.
Don't know how long he'd been fly fishing. Don't know why he started. Didn't know why he kept at it. To my way of not thinking, he just did it. And I thought it was an unquestionably beautiful act. In the early beetle-bug days I never thought to ask Emil if I could give it a try. Didn't think I'd take it up some day. Didn't think I wouldn't. But the seed was planted.
Bought my first fly rod at an Army-Navy surplus store. Eight feet of olive drab fiberglass complete with reel and genuine, weight forward floating line. Didn't take any lessons. Who took lessons for anything besides music back in '64? Besides, I was seventeen and already knew most of everything. Thankfully, my hours with Uncle Emil had put a wrinkle in my brain. So I knew enough to hold the rod by the fat end. And then just started buggy-whippin' it. Always had a good throwing arm and a natural instinct for using my body in the process. A few hundred casts moved me from dropping the fly on my head to feeling the rod load. When that revelation came about I started humming that puppy like there was no tomorrow. No ten to one old school casting for me! Load the rod and smoke it. Catching fish wasn't the point. Learning to lay the entire line out on the water was. No finesse at all. Big time line speed. It sure was fun.
The rod was stuffed away in my mom's garage when I went in the Army. Didn't pick one up again 'til the cabin was being built. We were near water and it seemed a necessity to resurrect the long rod. My daughter Annie and I spent three days together at the cabin when she was six. Outside of a woodtick that burrowed itself in her ear, we had a pretty good time. I'd say great time but Annie may remember differently. After a day of driving nails, for a six year old she was a demon with a framing hammer, the two of us would head to a nearby lake where we'd trespass on lakefront property for sale and there shore fish. That we were surrounded by blooming pink Ladyslippers was a nice touch. Off a small point we found a thicket of spawning bluegills. I'd flip an Adams to them with my fly rod. When one would impale itself, Annie would take over and reel in our dinner. Yup, Old Catch and Release turned into Catch and Kill right in front of his innocent little girl. Didn't know how she'd take it. In an effort to temper the process I said it was okay to kill the fish only if we ate them. A matter of respect. Probably I was making a bigger deal out of dinner than was necessary. We ate 'em all.
Most every winter I make a vow to get better at casting a fly. Brings to mind something Jimmy Carter said about wanting to become a better fly fisherman after leaving the presidency. Well, for me it ain't happened yet. I've lost the habit of wanting to be a good caster and get too hung up on catching fish. Ah, but the fishing season ain't over yet. There's still hope. Slim though that may be.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
White Pine
Another blog entry that doesn't seem to fit with canoe fishing. And eastern white pines don't seem to do much more than provide two by fours and background on the horizon when you're out on a Minnesota lake. They sure are easy to spot. Tall with a spreading crown. This is another entry I started a while ago then got caught up in the Learning Curve madness. Consider it another form of Spring cleaning.
How a white pine would fit in a fishing blog hadn't entered my head when I picked up the pen. Yup, I still pick up the pen. Sketch out the entry before hunting, pecking and filling it out with the keyboard. But somehow I figured it would. My brain doesn't work on its own but seems a conduit for words and ideas from somewhere else. Exactly where else, I don't know. Back when still working I'd walk into dozens of businesses each day. Most anything could be running through my head as I entered. Having no mature filtering mechanism at the time, the words would come tumbling out unmolested. Like I was a spectator. So there I'd be, saying something stupid and praying inside other words would follow to bail me out. Inevitably something appropriate would pop out and change the stupid to something merely idiotic. Almost like that was the intention from the start. No lawsuit for me.
So, white pine. That's what's on my mind today. On the west edge of our land soar, in a midwestern sense soar, two mature whites. Fifty inches in diameter at chest height. No idea how tall. The biggest one in Minnesota, over in Itasca State Park, is a hundred fifteen feet tall. Some are known to grow higher. Call ours at least a foot more than real tall. The larger is ramrod straight. Root structure starting above ground and digging into the sandy soil like a hand. They look like the real deal as far as big trees go in Minnesota.
The other is a micro smaller, with a huge side branch two stories up. Four years ago the branch cracked at the trunk and its tip sagged to the ground. The remaining joint was a splintered mess. A half dozen times I visited and pondered what to do. In my mind's eye I could clearly see myself atop an extension ladder chainsawing the limb off slick as a whistle. The pine'd pat me on the back and tell me what a swell feller I was.
Inevitably reality would pay a visit as I stood there pondering and the immense size of the limb would hit home. Three, three and half feet in diameter. No matter how much I shortened it from the tip inward she'd still be a half ton when the time came to cut 'er loose. Your guess is as good as mine as to which way it'd fall. Mine usually had me planted on the under side. Ignorance may be bliss for most people but I'd always walk away knowing the tree was on its own.
Sometime last winter the limb fell. The resulting damage was no worse than had I hacked away. Procrastination is the mother of the inevitable. Still there remains this immense, ragged tear in the side of a centuries old tree. What happens next is probably not for the best. Having seen other living things go through such a change tells me it's downhill all the way. Everything that happened was normal, natural and as organic as all get out. But it still sucks.
Those two pines are the highlight of our land. They were the reason for the first path Lois cleared through the hazel brush. You come pay me a visit and I'll no doubt take you over to look at them. To me they're always a thrill. In the early days my nephew Brian and I visited them several times to stand and stare at the three branched fork five feet above the first split. Spent a lot of time talking about a future tree house or platform. And think of climbing to the top to sway in the wind.
In a January, 1984 dream one of them was blown over and crushed the cabin. Big, nasty winds seem wreak havoc in dreams. Usually means there's a big change coming. And there was. But the dream also gave me the feeling that it'd all be okay if I dumped the useless crap in my life. In my case, part of growing up seemed to be an accumulation of self destructive things. Stuff that'd do me in eventually. Or maybe next Tuesday. What comes first, life or dreams? Or for that matter, the chicken or the egg? Got an answer for the second 'cause I've laid a lot of eggs in my time. Which brings it around to my dreams once again.
The trees, the water, the out-of-the-wayness, the nothing-specialness of the land we're on. That's its appeal for me. A little bit of a temporary home we share with the bats living under the steel roof. The four or five generations of Eastern Phoebes that have nested on the side of the cabin. The grey fox, deer, skunks, frogs, beavers. The swans passing through in spring and fall, takin' a break on Deadman. Love 'em all. But not like the white pines.
Two years ago my sister gave me a woodcut print of a white pine. No deer or mallards added to keep the eternal-entertainment-needers from becoming bored. The print, short and sweet. A single tree. Soon as I saw it there was no doubt as to how it had to be framed. Give me a moment and I'll work my way around to it.
The cabin was built in two phases. The first entirely of store bought lumber. A stick house. When I got going on the addition my friend Greg kept putting bees in my bonnet to do all the finish work with homemade hardwood. Originally he'd pushed for a portable sawmill. Build the place from the ground up with my own trees. Drop 'em, mill 'em, dry 'em and dimension 'em. Oof dah! Had the skill and the money. But time? Never had enough of that. Greg, he was that kind of man and had the scars to prove it. One of his many sidelines was as a tree cutter. Always had logs and lumber around by the thousands of board feet. Pine, oak, walnut, maple and the occasional exotic.
So we met halfway. He cut someone else's trees down. I bought a bunch of ash and oak logs from him. He hauled them to Lester-up-at-the-sawmill and we hauled them away. In time I planed, tongued and grooved them and used the boards to cover the walls and floors. Showing rare foresight, I kept a few of the natural edge boards. And after twenty-five years a couple remained. They became the picture frame. Damn nice frame and print. Hangs on the cabin wall facing the white pines as it should. In the very spot the dream pine would have crashed its way through.
In the fifty years we knew each other, Greg'd talk about his grandpa every so often. The one story that stuck with me was how they'd head over to these small, swampy looking lakes a few miles south of Leech Lake. There they'd catch sunnies by the bucket full. Always sounded great to me. His Grandpa was now long gone and had no clue who I was in the first place. That being so I figured he wouldn't mind if me and Al gave them a shot. They were more or less canoe lakes but if you were skillful with a trailer you could dump a small boat in off the gravel road and down the embankment. Even then there was no guarantee that you could get out of the opening bay. You see, a lot of the shoreline is floating bog. Sometimes the first connecting channel is there, sometimes it ain't.
Our first glance told us it was nothing but bullheads and sunnies. Just like the ones the border guard would have sent us back to had we stunk up Canadian lakes a second year running. Long story short, those holes in the swamp turned out to be our favorite lakes. Al says he'd fish 'em anytime.
Only went there once with Greg. Glad we made it. High sun, blue cloudless sky, cold front. Didn't catch much but that didn't matter. Being with him, floating on a piece of his past was a pleasure pure and simple. Over the years he'd shared a bunch of treasures with me. The wood, the lakes, his take on life, a hand now and then. But mostly his unquestioned friendship. Greg passed on this Spring.
Wasn't my intention to end up on that note. But that's how she went. Even had a mention of fishing on the way.
How a white pine would fit in a fishing blog hadn't entered my head when I picked up the pen. Yup, I still pick up the pen. Sketch out the entry before hunting, pecking and filling it out with the keyboard. But somehow I figured it would. My brain doesn't work on its own but seems a conduit for words and ideas from somewhere else. Exactly where else, I don't know. Back when still working I'd walk into dozens of businesses each day. Most anything could be running through my head as I entered. Having no mature filtering mechanism at the time, the words would come tumbling out unmolested. Like I was a spectator. So there I'd be, saying something stupid and praying inside other words would follow to bail me out. Inevitably something appropriate would pop out and change the stupid to something merely idiotic. Almost like that was the intention from the start. No lawsuit for me.
So, white pine. That's what's on my mind today. On the west edge of our land soar, in a midwestern sense soar, two mature whites. Fifty inches in diameter at chest height. No idea how tall. The biggest one in Minnesota, over in Itasca State Park, is a hundred fifteen feet tall. Some are known to grow higher. Call ours at least a foot more than real tall. The larger is ramrod straight. Root structure starting above ground and digging into the sandy soil like a hand. They look like the real deal as far as big trees go in Minnesota.
The other is a micro smaller, with a huge side branch two stories up. Four years ago the branch cracked at the trunk and its tip sagged to the ground. The remaining joint was a splintered mess. A half dozen times I visited and pondered what to do. In my mind's eye I could clearly see myself atop an extension ladder chainsawing the limb off slick as a whistle. The pine'd pat me on the back and tell me what a swell feller I was.
Inevitably reality would pay a visit as I stood there pondering and the immense size of the limb would hit home. Three, three and half feet in diameter. No matter how much I shortened it from the tip inward she'd still be a half ton when the time came to cut 'er loose. Your guess is as good as mine as to which way it'd fall. Mine usually had me planted on the under side. Ignorance may be bliss for most people but I'd always walk away knowing the tree was on its own.
Sometime last winter the limb fell. The resulting damage was no worse than had I hacked away. Procrastination is the mother of the inevitable. Still there remains this immense, ragged tear in the side of a centuries old tree. What happens next is probably not for the best. Having seen other living things go through such a change tells me it's downhill all the way. Everything that happened was normal, natural and as organic as all get out. But it still sucks.
Those two pines are the highlight of our land. They were the reason for the first path Lois cleared through the hazel brush. You come pay me a visit and I'll no doubt take you over to look at them. To me they're always a thrill. In the early days my nephew Brian and I visited them several times to stand and stare at the three branched fork five feet above the first split. Spent a lot of time talking about a future tree house or platform. And think of climbing to the top to sway in the wind.
In a January, 1984 dream one of them was blown over and crushed the cabin. Big, nasty winds seem wreak havoc in dreams. Usually means there's a big change coming. And there was. But the dream also gave me the feeling that it'd all be okay if I dumped the useless crap in my life. In my case, part of growing up seemed to be an accumulation of self destructive things. Stuff that'd do me in eventually. Or maybe next Tuesday. What comes first, life or dreams? Or for that matter, the chicken or the egg? Got an answer for the second 'cause I've laid a lot of eggs in my time. Which brings it around to my dreams once again.
The trees, the water, the out-of-the-wayness, the nothing-specialness of the land we're on. That's its appeal for me. A little bit of a temporary home we share with the bats living under the steel roof. The four or five generations of Eastern Phoebes that have nested on the side of the cabin. The grey fox, deer, skunks, frogs, beavers. The swans passing through in spring and fall, takin' a break on Deadman. Love 'em all. But not like the white pines.
Two years ago my sister gave me a woodcut print of a white pine. No deer or mallards added to keep the eternal-entertainment-needers from becoming bored. The print, short and sweet. A single tree. Soon as I saw it there was no doubt as to how it had to be framed. Give me a moment and I'll work my way around to it.
The cabin was built in two phases. The first entirely of store bought lumber. A stick house. When I got going on the addition my friend Greg kept putting bees in my bonnet to do all the finish work with homemade hardwood. Originally he'd pushed for a portable sawmill. Build the place from the ground up with my own trees. Drop 'em, mill 'em, dry 'em and dimension 'em. Oof dah! Had the skill and the money. But time? Never had enough of that. Greg, he was that kind of man and had the scars to prove it. One of his many sidelines was as a tree cutter. Always had logs and lumber around by the thousands of board feet. Pine, oak, walnut, maple and the occasional exotic.
So we met halfway. He cut someone else's trees down. I bought a bunch of ash and oak logs from him. He hauled them to Lester-up-at-the-sawmill and we hauled them away. In time I planed, tongued and grooved them and used the boards to cover the walls and floors. Showing rare foresight, I kept a few of the natural edge boards. And after twenty-five years a couple remained. They became the picture frame. Damn nice frame and print. Hangs on the cabin wall facing the white pines as it should. In the very spot the dream pine would have crashed its way through.
In the fifty years we knew each other, Greg'd talk about his grandpa every so often. The one story that stuck with me was how they'd head over to these small, swampy looking lakes a few miles south of Leech Lake. There they'd catch sunnies by the bucket full. Always sounded great to me. His Grandpa was now long gone and had no clue who I was in the first place. That being so I figured he wouldn't mind if me and Al gave them a shot. They were more or less canoe lakes but if you were skillful with a trailer you could dump a small boat in off the gravel road and down the embankment. Even then there was no guarantee that you could get out of the opening bay. You see, a lot of the shoreline is floating bog. Sometimes the first connecting channel is there, sometimes it ain't.
Our first glance told us it was nothing but bullheads and sunnies. Just like the ones the border guard would have sent us back to had we stunk up Canadian lakes a second year running. Long story short, those holes in the swamp turned out to be our favorite lakes. Al says he'd fish 'em anytime.
Only went there once with Greg. Glad we made it. High sun, blue cloudless sky, cold front. Didn't catch much but that didn't matter. Being with him, floating on a piece of his past was a pleasure pure and simple. Over the years he'd shared a bunch of treasures with me. The wood, the lakes, his take on life, a hand now and then. But mostly his unquestioned friendship. Greg passed on this Spring.
Wasn't my intention to end up on that note. But that's how she went. Even had a mention of fishing on the way.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Dead Flies
I'm in the process of unscrewing up the screwups in Learning Curve (I do not like that title - There's a perfect one out there somewhere and I'm hoping it'll eventually find the time to pay me a visit). It may not look it but that's the sixth draft on those pages Not perfect. So what is? On the other hand, some of it doesn't read bad at all. Of course I'm partial to me and my sense of humor. Have a fine time being by myself. Don't know if that's a good thing or not. First there's Jed Clampett about Hollywood stars, "I've heard tell some of them are so stuck on theyselves they can walk hand in hand off into the sunset all alone." Then there's Ron Dawes, an Olympic marathoner back in '68, about training, "Anyone who can't stand doing a three hour run on their own is keeping mighty poor company." So there I am, alone and poor company. Point of view thing I suppose.
So I'm stuck needing a topic that fits the occasion. Wilderness Canoe Fishing in Canada and Minnesota was chosen as a title 'cause it covered a lot of topics in seven words per some sage advice. Mostly I've been writing this thing to be writing. And to put together a coherent summary of the trips Allan and I took to Canada. Eventually add the pictures. Then blow a few bucks having a couple of copies printed for the two of us. What it all boils down to is that we spent a lot of time in the boonies together. Time that doesn't mean a whole lot to anyone but us. But that's enough. As Uncle Emil said, "Some things in life are worth doing simply because they are."
I began what follows last Spring. Not sure it'll ever be done. It's something like life. No climaxes, no punch lines. It doesn't stop like a novel or a movie. Just keeps going on. Evolving.
Dead Flies
Not one of them buggers was buzzing around the cabin last November when we locked it up and drove home. Where the dead ones on the window sills and floors came from is beyond me. First they weren't there. Then I find them dead. Somewhere there's a big, missing in-between.
It's that time of year. Early Spring in the Northland. Light snow on and off all day long. Not all that bad either, seeing as how I'm up here for Spring cleaning. Most every other year Lois'd be along and do the bulk of it herself. But not this year. As for the weather, so long as I keep a small fire in the wood stove, what's going on outside the door doesn't mean a lot. Snow is my friend. Cuts down on the temptation to play hooky. Take a peak at the loons on Deadman. There's work to be done inside. The kind that needs doing. And goes faster and more enjoyably with the blinders on.
The cabin radio is a lot like me. A little slow about entering the digital age. Lois found it at a close out of a close out around three decades ago. Only a couple of years from state of the art back then. Now it's nearly an antique. A tribute to the good old days when crap wasn't quite as crappy as it is now. Old crap is most always better than new crap I guess. Only curmudgeonliness remains as good as ever. With a practiced hand you can get a clear signal for at least an hour. But she's gonna fade sooner or later. When the smush and background buzz finally gets my Germanic dander up it's time to do the tweak and dance. Or find a new station.
Finding a new station is not as easy as it seems. Rock and Roll doesn't much cut it for me anymore. Not that I dislike the idea of a driving beat. But, my God, how many times can you listen to "Brown Eyed Girl?" Fourteen Country Western stations. Say no more. Don't feel the need to be saved, at least by radio. NPR is the last thing to squeeze out of the sieve and I stick with it from beginning of day to end of day. Not that I'm exactly in love with classical music. Don't hate it either. Drop a Mozart piano concerto on me or something by Papa Hayden once in a while and I've been known to tap my toes. In truth most of it simply passes below my radar. I can tune out a string quartet as well as anyone. Much easier to do than some hot shot making a stratacaster sound like a sow in heat.
I realize that it's all in my head but there's this image frozen there of the person behind the mike. Locked in a windowless cell, surrounded by walls of flat black, spray painted egg cartons and a couple of thousand CD's. All bought at estate sales of people who died of boredom and too much Scrabble. No cigarette burns or spilt beer on those babies. All but four still in their plastic wrappers. Maybe a drop or two of cabernet on the open ones. But otherwise pristine. Gimme a break here. When you're cleaning bug snot offa windows the mind has a tendency to drift off.
The guy who's running the show is obviously out of touch with reality. Keeps saying cool and cloudy for the weather. Stick your head out the door man! Look up and taste the snowflakes goober.
Just about from the day it was buttoned it up I've spent a lot of time figuring out how the cabin could've been done differently. Even entered my dreams. Yeah, it's hard to hide from a life symbol. The latest phase, one I know'll never happen, is erecting a second wrap-around addition that would tie the building together. Like it'd always meant to be that way. Drive a deep well. Have indoor plumbing just like the rich folks over on the big lake. Then I remember. The cabin was never meant to be more than a fancy tent. Something to keep the rain off the sleeping bags. Toward that purpose it's a small work of art. Way more than it needs be. Our only hope was for the building to last as long as Lois and I did. Looks like it's gonna make it.
But now, in the middle of Spring cleaning, I wish it was smaller. Like the ideal house my mom used to describe, "Stand in the middle and hit all four corners with a dust mop." Get used to it Mark. It is what it is, too big and too small at the same time. Or I could get a new take on it. Flip the big and the small. Then it'd always be the right size.
Early Spring and late Fall. Flurries but no accumulation. The best times of the year to be up here. In the Fall the poinging of forming lake ice off in the distance as I stand in the dark looking at the Milky Way or emptying my bladder. One of my cousins told me you've got enough land if you can take a leak in the yard and not be seen by anyone. The wisdom of the agrarian man. Didn't hear but two cars pass down the road today. Probably the same person going and coming.
In the Spring it's the smell of the Earth coming alive. Rich, live funk. The leaf buds are there. Catkins forming. A soft green outline to the woods. The birds can't hide yet. Don't move your eyes. Open 'em wide. Bird flight and feeding will give them away. A couple hundred yards away a pileated woodpecker tries to hammer down a jackpine. No way that guy can hide.
All the ice around the cabin is gone, even on the big lake. It's almost a temptation to head out and float the canoe. Though no real point to it yet. Water's too cold to roll the boat and the fish are still asleep. And I'm not the hot to trot fisherman I used to be. The appeal is still there. Just not overpowering enough to get the boat loaded. Warmer days will come. As I've grown older it's almost enough to be on the water with only the paddle. Almost. The fishin' pole gets me to slow down, pay closer attention. Putz along. Get that tingle of life on the line. On the dark side, it's becoming an inconvenience to release so many fish. The inevitable burden of being a master. At least so far as those couple of canoe lakes where the fish have suicidal tendencies. Experience hasn't made me a better fisherman but it has shown me the location of lakes that give me an edge.
The cabin done I move on to the outhouse. As far as shithouses go, it's a biggun. But it does qualify for my mom's idea of convenience. Spic and span in fifteen minutes.
Keep it clean and maintained. Stay on top of the repairs and it'll last forever. Or 'til Lois and I move on. One of my nephews who'd helped during the initial stages of building recently said, "You know, it doesn't look thirty years old." Thanks David.
So I'm stuck needing a topic that fits the occasion. Wilderness Canoe Fishing in Canada and Minnesota was chosen as a title 'cause it covered a lot of topics in seven words per some sage advice. Mostly I've been writing this thing to be writing. And to put together a coherent summary of the trips Allan and I took to Canada. Eventually add the pictures. Then blow a few bucks having a couple of copies printed for the two of us. What it all boils down to is that we spent a lot of time in the boonies together. Time that doesn't mean a whole lot to anyone but us. But that's enough. As Uncle Emil said, "Some things in life are worth doing simply because they are."
I began what follows last Spring. Not sure it'll ever be done. It's something like life. No climaxes, no punch lines. It doesn't stop like a novel or a movie. Just keeps going on. Evolving.
Dead Flies
Not one of them buggers was buzzing around the cabin last November when we locked it up and drove home. Where the dead ones on the window sills and floors came from is beyond me. First they weren't there. Then I find them dead. Somewhere there's a big, missing in-between.
It's that time of year. Early Spring in the Northland. Light snow on and off all day long. Not all that bad either, seeing as how I'm up here for Spring cleaning. Most every other year Lois'd be along and do the bulk of it herself. But not this year. As for the weather, so long as I keep a small fire in the wood stove, what's going on outside the door doesn't mean a lot. Snow is my friend. Cuts down on the temptation to play hooky. Take a peak at the loons on Deadman. There's work to be done inside. The kind that needs doing. And goes faster and more enjoyably with the blinders on.
The cabin radio is a lot like me. A little slow about entering the digital age. Lois found it at a close out of a close out around three decades ago. Only a couple of years from state of the art back then. Now it's nearly an antique. A tribute to the good old days when crap wasn't quite as crappy as it is now. Old crap is most always better than new crap I guess. Only curmudgeonliness remains as good as ever. With a practiced hand you can get a clear signal for at least an hour. But she's gonna fade sooner or later. When the smush and background buzz finally gets my Germanic dander up it's time to do the tweak and dance. Or find a new station.
Finding a new station is not as easy as it seems. Rock and Roll doesn't much cut it for me anymore. Not that I dislike the idea of a driving beat. But, my God, how many times can you listen to "Brown Eyed Girl?" Fourteen Country Western stations. Say no more. Don't feel the need to be saved, at least by radio. NPR is the last thing to squeeze out of the sieve and I stick with it from beginning of day to end of day. Not that I'm exactly in love with classical music. Don't hate it either. Drop a Mozart piano concerto on me or something by Papa Hayden once in a while and I've been known to tap my toes. In truth most of it simply passes below my radar. I can tune out a string quartet as well as anyone. Much easier to do than some hot shot making a stratacaster sound like a sow in heat.
I realize that it's all in my head but there's this image frozen there of the person behind the mike. Locked in a windowless cell, surrounded by walls of flat black, spray painted egg cartons and a couple of thousand CD's. All bought at estate sales of people who died of boredom and too much Scrabble. No cigarette burns or spilt beer on those babies. All but four still in their plastic wrappers. Maybe a drop or two of cabernet on the open ones. But otherwise pristine. Gimme a break here. When you're cleaning bug snot offa windows the mind has a tendency to drift off.
The guy who's running the show is obviously out of touch with reality. Keeps saying cool and cloudy for the weather. Stick your head out the door man! Look up and taste the snowflakes goober.
Just about from the day it was buttoned it up I've spent a lot of time figuring out how the cabin could've been done differently. Even entered my dreams. Yeah, it's hard to hide from a life symbol. The latest phase, one I know'll never happen, is erecting a second wrap-around addition that would tie the building together. Like it'd always meant to be that way. Drive a deep well. Have indoor plumbing just like the rich folks over on the big lake. Then I remember. The cabin was never meant to be more than a fancy tent. Something to keep the rain off the sleeping bags. Toward that purpose it's a small work of art. Way more than it needs be. Our only hope was for the building to last as long as Lois and I did. Looks like it's gonna make it.
But now, in the middle of Spring cleaning, I wish it was smaller. Like the ideal house my mom used to describe, "Stand in the middle and hit all four corners with a dust mop." Get used to it Mark. It is what it is, too big and too small at the same time. Or I could get a new take on it. Flip the big and the small. Then it'd always be the right size.
Early Spring and late Fall. Flurries but no accumulation. The best times of the year to be up here. In the Fall the poinging of forming lake ice off in the distance as I stand in the dark looking at the Milky Way or emptying my bladder. One of my cousins told me you've got enough land if you can take a leak in the yard and not be seen by anyone. The wisdom of the agrarian man. Didn't hear but two cars pass down the road today. Probably the same person going and coming.
In the Spring it's the smell of the Earth coming alive. Rich, live funk. The leaf buds are there. Catkins forming. A soft green outline to the woods. The birds can't hide yet. Don't move your eyes. Open 'em wide. Bird flight and feeding will give them away. A couple hundred yards away a pileated woodpecker tries to hammer down a jackpine. No way that guy can hide.
All the ice around the cabin is gone, even on the big lake. It's almost a temptation to head out and float the canoe. Though no real point to it yet. Water's too cold to roll the boat and the fish are still asleep. And I'm not the hot to trot fisherman I used to be. The appeal is still there. Just not overpowering enough to get the boat loaded. Warmer days will come. As I've grown older it's almost enough to be on the water with only the paddle. Almost. The fishin' pole gets me to slow down, pay closer attention. Putz along. Get that tingle of life on the line. On the dark side, it's becoming an inconvenience to release so many fish. The inevitable burden of being a master. At least so far as those couple of canoe lakes where the fish have suicidal tendencies. Experience hasn't made me a better fisherman but it has shown me the location of lakes that give me an edge.
The cabin done I move on to the outhouse. As far as shithouses go, it's a biggun. But it does qualify for my mom's idea of convenience. Spic and span in fifteen minutes.
Keep it clean and maintained. Stay on top of the repairs and it'll last forever. Or 'til Lois and I move on. One of my nephews who'd helped during the initial stages of building recently said, "You know, it doesn't look thirty years old." Thanks David.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Eppy Log (Last Trip)
The trip of '09 is a bugger for me to write about. Lotta reasons. Most of them between the ears. Call it brain deterioration or SFB syndrome if you prefer. I remember the trip up. The paddle in. And the trip out. The days in the middle all jumble together like a pile of jackstrawed spruces back a hundred yards from shore. It's all there but it sure is a mess.
No doubt that the trip was Lois and Maria's gift to me and Al. Neither of us is the type to lay down the law and go off as we please. We're more of the throw-an-idea-out-and-see-what-the-response-is types. The idea arose. They said, "Why not?," and we were off and planning. I think we all knew this would be the last trip of its kind. Don't like to think in those terms. Try to fool myself that there's more of 'em down the road but both my age and changing outlook on life like to throw their weight around. At 64 I've got most of what I've always had. The word 'most', however, is a big deal. Ten or more years ago, like a lot of people, I could do more than I was capable of doing for short periods of time. Nowadays I can only do what I'm able to do. And am short on desire to do even that. Don't know if I'd want to push off into headwind whitecaps and grunt for an hour to cross a bay anymore. The trip of '09 threw a few hints in that direction. All that plus Maria and Allan were thinking in terms of having their own family. Scenes change, actors come and go.
We knew where we were going from the get-go, Wedge Lake. A return to the root of all great fishing. The little island campsite and the big pike. All would be as it had been. Except that smokes were a thing of the past. Made a reservation at the Winnipeg HoJo for Friday night. Hey, all we were looking for was a bed. How bad could it be? Just off the freeway, perfect. Only one negative internet review. Seems the writer was in a dither about a little noise coming from the bar downstairs. Wrote that off as some candy-ass with overly sensitive ears. A regular Princess and the Pea type. Nothing better to do than pick away at the littlest fault and complain to the world at large. Boy were they on the money! Don't ever stay at the HoJo on Portage Avenue if it's a Friday night. Live Rock music. And after ten o'clock, every ten minutes the door opens, a group exits and a Hoser yells out, "Jeezus it's cold out, eh!" However, on the bright side, it does quiet down after 2 a.m. Not a big deal really. Our alarm was set for 5:45 and real men don't need sleep, do they?
Maybe they do. Or maybe we're not. Either way, I have no memory of the road between Winnipeg and The Pas. I knew for sure we were at the Esso station, me pumpin' gas and Al buying frozen minnows. But how we got there was a mystery. The Jeep looked okay, no dirt mud or dents. Probably never left the road anywhere. My experience as a driver told me those things just happen. You pull into your first stop in downtown Minneapolis and don't remember a thing since leaving the airport. Then say a prayer that nothing bad happened on the way I'll hear about later when the cops come to take me away.
McDonalds plus an hour and we arrived at the Government Dock. Showed up just in time to watch a flotilla of deep-draught fishing boats load up with food, gear, beer, oxygen bottles, defibrillators and a platoon of seriously aged fishermen. From their banter we learned they'd followed the retreating glaciers north in their youth in search of quality fishing. Claimed they'd been fishing Elbow Lake before the lodge was there, before the Cree had come onto the land, maybe even before the land bridge between Asia and North America. "Fishin's nothin' like it used to be back in the Bronze Age, sonny. Caught stuff that ain't been seen in a couple millennia. Shit, you boys ain't started to live 'til you accidentally tied onto a baby Wooly Mammoth. On the other hand it was a helluva trip over from Europe back then. Three years each way. Hard to get that much vacation all at once."
Simply being among men who fluently spoke a long dead language like Anatolian, sent chills up my spine. I begged to snap a few pics of them. Turned me down saying all our shots would be out of focus, "Don't get us wrong, we're not The Undead. Just the Slow in Dying."
Their goal for the day, outside of continued breathing, was the lodge on Elbow Lake. Ours was a tad closer, on Second Cranberry. It was pushing mid-afternoon. Wouldn't be able to fish that day if we pushed it all the way into Wedge. But we'd known that to be an iffy goal since hitting the road in the morning. Back in'99 the Simonhouse Ranger had X-ed the north side of our destination as a regular lake trout factory. While watching the dance of the Ancient Mariners we'd learned the ice had gone out during the last week. And lakers like cold water. Oh boy. We'd more or less been hoping for such a combo. Even packed shiny silver lures just in case. Also had the minnows. Now if we only knew which end was up concerning lake trout, we were set.
Okie-dokie, everything was pretty much as usual to this point. I guess. Once out on the water it seemed things had changed. Same boat, same load, same paddlers. Moving into a gentle head wind. Waves but no whitecaps. Done that before and moved along smartly. This year it felt like we were oozing our way through Jello. Maybe to Allan it felt fine. Why not? He was twenty-nine and in good shape. To me the miles felt longer and slower, the far side of First Cranberry a never ending slog away. Interesting that the watch called me a liar when we reached the channel. I figure my mindset had gotten used to smaller water with ten pounds of fishing gear aboard. I'd locked into a lake equals a mile. That First Cranberry was over four sure stretched that equation out. But not the canoe. Up ahead lay seven mile long Second Cranberry. Uff dah. Thank God all the beauty was still around us.
Along the way our banter was much the same. A lot passes through a person's head. Every so often something sicks out and gets spoken aloud. Maybe, but rarely, profound. More likely mundane or borderline stupid. A lot of silence in between. A conversation ends but the mind doesn't stop. One thought leads to another, to another. The next conversation is directly related to the last except all the intermediate connections are gone. We're remembering a moment from a trip of the past. A minute of silence follows. Then Global Warming and how it relates to shoe size. It turns into a game of mental ping-pong. Then silence again.
We'd passed the campsite we were heading on earlier trips. Always saw it from a distance. Had this picture in my head of a broad, flat shelf sloping to the waterline with long views to the north. Turned out that was a hallucination. What we found was a single acre, raw, scruffy hump with not a single flat spot for a tent. Not as bad as The Rock on Third Cranberry, barely. Didn't really matter much. Moved some boulders for the tent, fired up the stove and we were home on a lake in Canada again. Felt good, really good.
In the evening we worked our little archipelago with nothing more than wet line to show. Threw spinners, bottomed fished, even trolled. It was one of those times on the water that didn't feel the least bit fishy. Maybe the lakers picked up on my mood. Maybe X didn't mark the spot. No lakers for us.
Had the fishing been better we'd have not moved on come Sunday. Four, my-God-is-this-never-going-to-end, miles took us to the connecting channel. From there it was a breeze. The portage landing was a simple slide into shore. Not at all what I remembered. The slope above was a friendly, gradual rise. Almost embarrassing to have broken my ribs on it. I knew it had happened but just couldn't picture it. Could it be the world changes any old way it wants if you don't keep a close eye on it? Perhaps we live on a devious planet. Out to wipe us out in the blink of that same eye. Maybe the inertia of the pack didn't pull me off that slope so much as Mother Earth pulled the rug out from under me. Seems impossible but after revisiting that 'hillside', I'm sticking with my little conspiracy theory. No way I'm taking the blame.
The portage also had a new twist to it. Midway, what had once been an ease-your-way-around-the-edge puddle, was now a half acre pond. Any bigger and we'd have fished it. As such it took a forty rod, hummock jumping, log straddling, side trip to get around it. This year Allan carried the bulk of the load. By that I mean the cooler. More accurately we each carried it the same distance measured by effort. My effort move it thirty rods, his about two hundred eighty. He also got the joy of the canoe. Have to admit I got a kick out of him bushwhacking the seventeen footer through the tree thick side trip. Nothing gives an onlooker pleasure like an eighty foot spruce getting in the way of a canoe portager. A solid thwack!, a brief stagger and an echo chamber series of curses. Knew the feeling well. Glad it wasn't me.
The portage itself had evolved and had a heavily used look. Appeared Wedge Lake had become a destination. We shared most of the carry with a day tripping Canadian family. 'Course they were moving motors, gas and coolers in addition to fishing gear. There weren't but eight of them but covered four generations. They had a raggedy three wheel ATV to help cart the bulk. The puddle put the end to that so it was steel on the shoulder for the last half. Having their company was a portent for the week. Most days we were serenaded by the buzz of an outboard. But the evenings, nights and mornings were still ours alone.
Caught sight of a swimming caribou as we entered the channel. A rare sight for Minnesota eyes. Around the corner our island had visibly changed. The lower end had suffered a blowdown. Five missing jackpines made a big difference on God's half-acre. Almost blocked our landing. After we eked our way ashore, Al set to work with the branch saw. Cut enough lengths of firewood to make up for what we'd burned over the years. Got the canoe on high ground. In three trips we finally spent nineteen nights on that island. Not many places on the planet could I say that about.
Over by the fire grate the jackpine from which we'd hung wet shoes, and the occasional lure suspended rod, gone also. It'd been nine years since we'd left in the mists and dying winds of '00. Maybe others had camped there since. If so, I hope they enjoyed it as much as we did. Tent on sloping slab. Kitchen by grate. We were home for the last time.
I know we'd changed since '00. Still father and son. No doubt about that. But the balance point had moved. We didn't read aloud anymore. Just didn't seem to fit. Allan now pulled me along as much as he followed, maybe more. Didn't want to get into that back then. Don't know if the thought even entered my head. Looking back on that week, the gut feeling was there for sure. You don't have to like it much when the world is passing you by but pass you by it will, if you live long enough. And it seems I was living long enough. Ain't that sweet. Just like me to get a grip on things two years after they've happened. I'd been that way all my life. If I was quicker on the uptake, I'd be quicker on knowing why I was depressed. That'd make me happy for sure (almost want to put a smiley-face here. If that ever happens I'll be ready for the compost heap). In short, Allan was nice enough to let me have the rear seat in the canoe but I knew who was moving the boat.
The cold water made for slow fishing. Or possibly there was a direct relationship between portage wear and fewer, smaller pike and pickerel. No doubt they'd seen seen better tricks than we'd up our sleeves. Throw in nary an emergent weed. No glitter of flying minnows when our lures hit the water. We were a week or two early. Oh, there were fish to be caught. Even a few fatty pike. Big surprise when I caught the first one in an inside corner of a small bay. No reason for her to be there. Ten years earlier it would have been a thrill. Now it was more of a satisfying chuckle that I could still fool one with a homemade lure.
Got me to thinking that sex and fishing are related somewhere down deep. Old guy humor but maybe more truth in it than most of Freud's guesses about human nature. Not that I'm claiming to be smarter than the old guy. However, I never espoused the following: I think it was in Eros and Civilization that he threw out the idea of women ending up in the kitchen back in the hunter/gatherer days 'cause they were physically unable to piss out a campfire. Can't say I didn't admire the logic of his thought but c'mon. Maybe the ladies had no desire to do such a thing. Mostly I was left with the image of little Siggy, wee-wee out, dousing flames and dreaming of being a fireman and not a chef.
One way or t'other I had my fish. Didn't catch anything else near that size. From then on Al took over. At least I had a good seat from which to watch. But walleyes? Far and few. Not a clue where they were hiding.
Seagulls. Down in Florida last winter there was this flock of them working the water a ways out from shore. I asked one of the cigar-smoking shore fisherman what the gulls were feeding on, "Probably garbage. Gulls can't catch squat." To that point I'd always assumed gulls were at least as good at fishing as I was. When we'd seen the flock working the small side of Wedge I wrote it off as birds chowing down on baitfish. Made that assumption many times in the past. Even used it as a sign where the fish were. With no success. Figured the problem had to be me. The gulls couldn't be wrong, could they? Seeing them several times in the same spot on Wedge had no effect on me. We were on a walleye and pike factory. Didn't need no stinkin' gulls or baitfish to help us catch fish.
By Wednesday we hadn't caught but a couple of walleyes. Obviously we needed help. We were working the small side of Wedge near the portage. A few hundred yards away the gulls were still doing their own working. Al was still throwing his spinner. I got into watching the gulls. They'd dive, skim the surface briefly then cut it sharply into the sky. Gradually Allan joined in the watch. Why not? It was a good show. Wanting a closer look we began a slow drift. The gulls began a slower drift away from us. But we were gaining. Seems they were more into what they were chowing down on. When the distance was cut in half we could see they were skimming but not touching the water. Flying fish? Drifted past a few spent mayflies. Then a few more. Then wigglers floating to the surface. Aha! The birdies were snatching mayflies as they left the water. "I'm free and lookin' for love!" Bam! "Crap! I'm lunch!" Life is fleeting.
Seemed like a lotta work for a few little bugs. How many calories in a mayfly? How many calories to hover and snatch one? No hurry we continued to watch. Waited for the birds to drop from the sky as they ran out of gas. And wondered if we had any spinners that looked like emergent bugs.
The story goes that walleyes are hard to catch when mayflies are hatching. The fish don't eat the fly so much as they suck up the worms on the way up. The story goes on to add that if you could find where the mayflies are hatching, and we had, throw the pickerel a meal and you might fool a few. So we trolled through the hatch. Allan dragged a minnow tipped jig and me, a spinner. He caught a single walleye. I got me a branch. What was the conclusion? Not much. Except that maybe aspen also eat mayflies.
'Bout the time we thought we'd seen most everything on Wedge, there sat an aging homestead on a mid-lake island. Had to pull ashore and check it out. Whoever'd built it had done a fine job. Even in their tumbling-down phase the buildings and layout showed eye-pleasing care and planning. Part of someone's history sat in that clearing. Like most everyone's, the story died with the main character. From what we saw it had been a story worth telling. The grayed logs we were looking at sure beat the hell out of the more modern, plywood crap we'd passed a half dozen times in the past. Got me to thinking. Someday I'm gonna be gone. Might not be a bad idea to consider what I'm gonna leave behind for my kids and Mother Nature to clean up. Maybe that's the Last Judgement.
After a couple of dozen trips in the woods, our cooking had reached borderline extravagance. Began with the always mundane ribeyes and hashbrowns. Allan couldn't part with his usual breakfast of eggs and maple sausages. Since he made it and it tasted good, I was fine with that. My old man loved pork chops. Must have passed that on to me. Only he liked 'em crisp. Me, I went for browned thick-cut chops in onion, diced Italian tomato sauce and simmered for an hour or two over the Coleman stove. Maybe healthy, maybe not. But damned good eatin'. Throw in some spicy chili on the off night. And accompany most of the evening meals with a simple red wine that feels at home in the northwoods. Slab-sized sandwiches on breads from the New French Bakery for lunch. Roughin' it vittles. All in all, food so good we didn't deserve great fishing.
Said it before but here she goes again. The ground under your feet and the trees in your face let you know that the map doesn't tell the whole story. In seventeen years we'd come to expect and accept that. Yes, I'm talking bushwhack once again. We had a sure-fire plan for this one. And the sure-fire notion that it probably wouldn't work out. Sometimes nature throws a whammy at you. Sometimes you shoot yourself in the foot. The foot-shootin' in this case was misreading the number of zeros on the spool of fluorescent yellow ribbon.
The plan was to pull ashore, shoot an azimuth with the compass and tie highly visible ribbon to trees along the route to an unnamed lake a mile away. Good plan, eh? Not so good if you need about fifty and only have enough ribbon for fourteen. We gave it a shot anyhow. Figured we could resort to some form of Boy Scout idiocy. Like pointer branches, tree blazes or dropping colored pebbles. Well, call it a valiantly attempted, miserable failure. The landing was a slide ashore. The rest was downhill all the way. The swamps too large and our desire marginal. Finally I held the last ribbon position while Al disappeared into the bog. We kept voice contact knowing that if I could still hear him, he hadn't fallen off the planet or sunk out of sight. People disappear all the time in Canada. I could accept that. Still, I was very happy to see him return. So we found a piece of high ground and did what all Americans do, took pictures of each other. By the way, I was never a Boy Scout.
Friday arrived with us up in the air about when to leave. The plan called for Saturday but the fishing wasn't great and we were out of wine. We headed down lake after breakfast with the unspoken understanding that should the fishing pick up, we'd stay. Around lunch we paddled back in the sunshine and packed it up. Spend the night in The Pas. Wasn't difficult working our way over the portage and up the Cranberries. It wasn't until we hit First Cranberry that the clouds rolled in. With a mile left we were staring into the teeth of a wall cloud. Picked up the pace.
Under ideal conditions, how long does it take for glassed out water to build into whitecaps? From what we saw, figure two minutes tops. The blow nearly stopped us. When I was thirteen, under similar conditions while in a row boat, some dude with a red beard dove in the lake and bailed me out. Yeah, a young Viking came to the rescue. Doubt that anything would have happened. Cripes, I was holding my own. My Uncle Eddie said that should something similar ever happen again, drop to the bottom of the boat and ride it out. Row back when the wind died down.
So there we were. Holding our own. Waiting for our Viking. Didn't look like that was gonna happen. Guess he'd gotten a little to old in the last half century. And not a square inch of space was left in the bottom of the pack-filled canoe. One thing I knew for sure. We were no more than a quarter mile from the access and there was no way in hell we were going down. I was both scared and pissed at the same time. A little bit of adrenalin pump goin' on. The closest shore was no more than a hundred yards to our right. By angling the bow a few degrees that way, I turned our lack of forward motion into a sideways slide. Wasn't much of a shore, cattails and brush. But it was enough to cut the wind slightly. Slowly we moved forward. Seemed like one of those forever things. Probably fought it no more than fifteen minutes. A fitting ending to our nine Canadian trips. Guess the Great White North didn't want us to leave.
No sooner did we land than the wind died down. And the temperature plummeted. Al went for the Jeep. While I waited, a party of fisherman motored in and off-loaded a nice stringer of walleyes. They'd sure had better luck than us. Then headed straight for the cleaning house and cranked up the hand pump. 'Eerkh, eerkh, eerkh' she went. When Allan returned they were still at it. I asked him to give a listen. "You know what that is?" Pause. "It's the sound of old men masturbating."
On The drive back to The Pas the rains came. The temperature dropped into the forties. A good night to be out of the bush.
No doubt that the trip was Lois and Maria's gift to me and Al. Neither of us is the type to lay down the law and go off as we please. We're more of the throw-an-idea-out-and-see-what-the-response-is types. The idea arose. They said, "Why not?," and we were off and planning. I think we all knew this would be the last trip of its kind. Don't like to think in those terms. Try to fool myself that there's more of 'em down the road but both my age and changing outlook on life like to throw their weight around. At 64 I've got most of what I've always had. The word 'most', however, is a big deal. Ten or more years ago, like a lot of people, I could do more than I was capable of doing for short periods of time. Nowadays I can only do what I'm able to do. And am short on desire to do even that. Don't know if I'd want to push off into headwind whitecaps and grunt for an hour to cross a bay anymore. The trip of '09 threw a few hints in that direction. All that plus Maria and Allan were thinking in terms of having their own family. Scenes change, actors come and go.
We knew where we were going from the get-go, Wedge Lake. A return to the root of all great fishing. The little island campsite and the big pike. All would be as it had been. Except that smokes were a thing of the past. Made a reservation at the Winnipeg HoJo for Friday night. Hey, all we were looking for was a bed. How bad could it be? Just off the freeway, perfect. Only one negative internet review. Seems the writer was in a dither about a little noise coming from the bar downstairs. Wrote that off as some candy-ass with overly sensitive ears. A regular Princess and the Pea type. Nothing better to do than pick away at the littlest fault and complain to the world at large. Boy were they on the money! Don't ever stay at the HoJo on Portage Avenue if it's a Friday night. Live Rock music. And after ten o'clock, every ten minutes the door opens, a group exits and a Hoser yells out, "Jeezus it's cold out, eh!" However, on the bright side, it does quiet down after 2 a.m. Not a big deal really. Our alarm was set for 5:45 and real men don't need sleep, do they?
Maybe they do. Or maybe we're not. Either way, I have no memory of the road between Winnipeg and The Pas. I knew for sure we were at the Esso station, me pumpin' gas and Al buying frozen minnows. But how we got there was a mystery. The Jeep looked okay, no dirt mud or dents. Probably never left the road anywhere. My experience as a driver told me those things just happen. You pull into your first stop in downtown Minneapolis and don't remember a thing since leaving the airport. Then say a prayer that nothing bad happened on the way I'll hear about later when the cops come to take me away.
McDonalds plus an hour and we arrived at the Government Dock. Showed up just in time to watch a flotilla of deep-draught fishing boats load up with food, gear, beer, oxygen bottles, defibrillators and a platoon of seriously aged fishermen. From their banter we learned they'd followed the retreating glaciers north in their youth in search of quality fishing. Claimed they'd been fishing Elbow Lake before the lodge was there, before the Cree had come onto the land, maybe even before the land bridge between Asia and North America. "Fishin's nothin' like it used to be back in the Bronze Age, sonny. Caught stuff that ain't been seen in a couple millennia. Shit, you boys ain't started to live 'til you accidentally tied onto a baby Wooly Mammoth. On the other hand it was a helluva trip over from Europe back then. Three years each way. Hard to get that much vacation all at once."
Simply being among men who fluently spoke a long dead language like Anatolian, sent chills up my spine. I begged to snap a few pics of them. Turned me down saying all our shots would be out of focus, "Don't get us wrong, we're not The Undead. Just the Slow in Dying."
Their goal for the day, outside of continued breathing, was the lodge on Elbow Lake. Ours was a tad closer, on Second Cranberry. It was pushing mid-afternoon. Wouldn't be able to fish that day if we pushed it all the way into Wedge. But we'd known that to be an iffy goal since hitting the road in the morning. Back in'99 the Simonhouse Ranger had X-ed the north side of our destination as a regular lake trout factory. While watching the dance of the Ancient Mariners we'd learned the ice had gone out during the last week. And lakers like cold water. Oh boy. We'd more or less been hoping for such a combo. Even packed shiny silver lures just in case. Also had the minnows. Now if we only knew which end was up concerning lake trout, we were set.
Okie-dokie, everything was pretty much as usual to this point. I guess. Once out on the water it seemed things had changed. Same boat, same load, same paddlers. Moving into a gentle head wind. Waves but no whitecaps. Done that before and moved along smartly. This year it felt like we were oozing our way through Jello. Maybe to Allan it felt fine. Why not? He was twenty-nine and in good shape. To me the miles felt longer and slower, the far side of First Cranberry a never ending slog away. Interesting that the watch called me a liar when we reached the channel. I figure my mindset had gotten used to smaller water with ten pounds of fishing gear aboard. I'd locked into a lake equals a mile. That First Cranberry was over four sure stretched that equation out. But not the canoe. Up ahead lay seven mile long Second Cranberry. Uff dah. Thank God all the beauty was still around us.
Along the way our banter was much the same. A lot passes through a person's head. Every so often something sicks out and gets spoken aloud. Maybe, but rarely, profound. More likely mundane or borderline stupid. A lot of silence in between. A conversation ends but the mind doesn't stop. One thought leads to another, to another. The next conversation is directly related to the last except all the intermediate connections are gone. We're remembering a moment from a trip of the past. A minute of silence follows. Then Global Warming and how it relates to shoe size. It turns into a game of mental ping-pong. Then silence again.
We'd passed the campsite we were heading on earlier trips. Always saw it from a distance. Had this picture in my head of a broad, flat shelf sloping to the waterline with long views to the north. Turned out that was a hallucination. What we found was a single acre, raw, scruffy hump with not a single flat spot for a tent. Not as bad as The Rock on Third Cranberry, barely. Didn't really matter much. Moved some boulders for the tent, fired up the stove and we were home on a lake in Canada again. Felt good, really good.
In the evening we worked our little archipelago with nothing more than wet line to show. Threw spinners, bottomed fished, even trolled. It was one of those times on the water that didn't feel the least bit fishy. Maybe the lakers picked up on my mood. Maybe X didn't mark the spot. No lakers for us.
Had the fishing been better we'd have not moved on come Sunday. Four, my-God-is-this-never-going-to-end, miles took us to the connecting channel. From there it was a breeze. The portage landing was a simple slide into shore. Not at all what I remembered. The slope above was a friendly, gradual rise. Almost embarrassing to have broken my ribs on it. I knew it had happened but just couldn't picture it. Could it be the world changes any old way it wants if you don't keep a close eye on it? Perhaps we live on a devious planet. Out to wipe us out in the blink of that same eye. Maybe the inertia of the pack didn't pull me off that slope so much as Mother Earth pulled the rug out from under me. Seems impossible but after revisiting that 'hillside', I'm sticking with my little conspiracy theory. No way I'm taking the blame.
The portage also had a new twist to it. Midway, what had once been an ease-your-way-around-the-edge puddle, was now a half acre pond. Any bigger and we'd have fished it. As such it took a forty rod, hummock jumping, log straddling, side trip to get around it. This year Allan carried the bulk of the load. By that I mean the cooler. More accurately we each carried it the same distance measured by effort. My effort move it thirty rods, his about two hundred eighty. He also got the joy of the canoe. Have to admit I got a kick out of him bushwhacking the seventeen footer through the tree thick side trip. Nothing gives an onlooker pleasure like an eighty foot spruce getting in the way of a canoe portager. A solid thwack!, a brief stagger and an echo chamber series of curses. Knew the feeling well. Glad it wasn't me.
The portage itself had evolved and had a heavily used look. Appeared Wedge Lake had become a destination. We shared most of the carry with a day tripping Canadian family. 'Course they were moving motors, gas and coolers in addition to fishing gear. There weren't but eight of them but covered four generations. They had a raggedy three wheel ATV to help cart the bulk. The puddle put the end to that so it was steel on the shoulder for the last half. Having their company was a portent for the week. Most days we were serenaded by the buzz of an outboard. But the evenings, nights and mornings were still ours alone.
Caught sight of a swimming caribou as we entered the channel. A rare sight for Minnesota eyes. Around the corner our island had visibly changed. The lower end had suffered a blowdown. Five missing jackpines made a big difference on God's half-acre. Almost blocked our landing. After we eked our way ashore, Al set to work with the branch saw. Cut enough lengths of firewood to make up for what we'd burned over the years. Got the canoe on high ground. In three trips we finally spent nineteen nights on that island. Not many places on the planet could I say that about.
Over by the fire grate the jackpine from which we'd hung wet shoes, and the occasional lure suspended rod, gone also. It'd been nine years since we'd left in the mists and dying winds of '00. Maybe others had camped there since. If so, I hope they enjoyed it as much as we did. Tent on sloping slab. Kitchen by grate. We were home for the last time.
I know we'd changed since '00. Still father and son. No doubt about that. But the balance point had moved. We didn't read aloud anymore. Just didn't seem to fit. Allan now pulled me along as much as he followed, maybe more. Didn't want to get into that back then. Don't know if the thought even entered my head. Looking back on that week, the gut feeling was there for sure. You don't have to like it much when the world is passing you by but pass you by it will, if you live long enough. And it seems I was living long enough. Ain't that sweet. Just like me to get a grip on things two years after they've happened. I'd been that way all my life. If I was quicker on the uptake, I'd be quicker on knowing why I was depressed. That'd make me happy for sure (almost want to put a smiley-face here. If that ever happens I'll be ready for the compost heap). In short, Allan was nice enough to let me have the rear seat in the canoe but I knew who was moving the boat.
The cold water made for slow fishing. Or possibly there was a direct relationship between portage wear and fewer, smaller pike and pickerel. No doubt they'd seen seen better tricks than we'd up our sleeves. Throw in nary an emergent weed. No glitter of flying minnows when our lures hit the water. We were a week or two early. Oh, there were fish to be caught. Even a few fatty pike. Big surprise when I caught the first one in an inside corner of a small bay. No reason for her to be there. Ten years earlier it would have been a thrill. Now it was more of a satisfying chuckle that I could still fool one with a homemade lure.
Got me to thinking that sex and fishing are related somewhere down deep. Old guy humor but maybe more truth in it than most of Freud's guesses about human nature. Not that I'm claiming to be smarter than the old guy. However, I never espoused the following: I think it was in Eros and Civilization that he threw out the idea of women ending up in the kitchen back in the hunter/gatherer days 'cause they were physically unable to piss out a campfire. Can't say I didn't admire the logic of his thought but c'mon. Maybe the ladies had no desire to do such a thing. Mostly I was left with the image of little Siggy, wee-wee out, dousing flames and dreaming of being a fireman and not a chef.
One way or t'other I had my fish. Didn't catch anything else near that size. From then on Al took over. At least I had a good seat from which to watch. But walleyes? Far and few. Not a clue where they were hiding.
Seagulls. Down in Florida last winter there was this flock of them working the water a ways out from shore. I asked one of the cigar-smoking shore fisherman what the gulls were feeding on, "Probably garbage. Gulls can't catch squat." To that point I'd always assumed gulls were at least as good at fishing as I was. When we'd seen the flock working the small side of Wedge I wrote it off as birds chowing down on baitfish. Made that assumption many times in the past. Even used it as a sign where the fish were. With no success. Figured the problem had to be me. The gulls couldn't be wrong, could they? Seeing them several times in the same spot on Wedge had no effect on me. We were on a walleye and pike factory. Didn't need no stinkin' gulls or baitfish to help us catch fish.
By Wednesday we hadn't caught but a couple of walleyes. Obviously we needed help. We were working the small side of Wedge near the portage. A few hundred yards away the gulls were still doing their own working. Al was still throwing his spinner. I got into watching the gulls. They'd dive, skim the surface briefly then cut it sharply into the sky. Gradually Allan joined in the watch. Why not? It was a good show. Wanting a closer look we began a slow drift. The gulls began a slower drift away from us. But we were gaining. Seems they were more into what they were chowing down on. When the distance was cut in half we could see they were skimming but not touching the water. Flying fish? Drifted past a few spent mayflies. Then a few more. Then wigglers floating to the surface. Aha! The birdies were snatching mayflies as they left the water. "I'm free and lookin' for love!" Bam! "Crap! I'm lunch!" Life is fleeting.
Seemed like a lotta work for a few little bugs. How many calories in a mayfly? How many calories to hover and snatch one? No hurry we continued to watch. Waited for the birds to drop from the sky as they ran out of gas. And wondered if we had any spinners that looked like emergent bugs.
The story goes that walleyes are hard to catch when mayflies are hatching. The fish don't eat the fly so much as they suck up the worms on the way up. The story goes on to add that if you could find where the mayflies are hatching, and we had, throw the pickerel a meal and you might fool a few. So we trolled through the hatch. Allan dragged a minnow tipped jig and me, a spinner. He caught a single walleye. I got me a branch. What was the conclusion? Not much. Except that maybe aspen also eat mayflies.
'Bout the time we thought we'd seen most everything on Wedge, there sat an aging homestead on a mid-lake island. Had to pull ashore and check it out. Whoever'd built it had done a fine job. Even in their tumbling-down phase the buildings and layout showed eye-pleasing care and planning. Part of someone's history sat in that clearing. Like most everyone's, the story died with the main character. From what we saw it had been a story worth telling. The grayed logs we were looking at sure beat the hell out of the more modern, plywood crap we'd passed a half dozen times in the past. Got me to thinking. Someday I'm gonna be gone. Might not be a bad idea to consider what I'm gonna leave behind for my kids and Mother Nature to clean up. Maybe that's the Last Judgement.
After a couple of dozen trips in the woods, our cooking had reached borderline extravagance. Began with the always mundane ribeyes and hashbrowns. Allan couldn't part with his usual breakfast of eggs and maple sausages. Since he made it and it tasted good, I was fine with that. My old man loved pork chops. Must have passed that on to me. Only he liked 'em crisp. Me, I went for browned thick-cut chops in onion, diced Italian tomato sauce and simmered for an hour or two over the Coleman stove. Maybe healthy, maybe not. But damned good eatin'. Throw in some spicy chili on the off night. And accompany most of the evening meals with a simple red wine that feels at home in the northwoods. Slab-sized sandwiches on breads from the New French Bakery for lunch. Roughin' it vittles. All in all, food so good we didn't deserve great fishing.
Said it before but here she goes again. The ground under your feet and the trees in your face let you know that the map doesn't tell the whole story. In seventeen years we'd come to expect and accept that. Yes, I'm talking bushwhack once again. We had a sure-fire plan for this one. And the sure-fire notion that it probably wouldn't work out. Sometimes nature throws a whammy at you. Sometimes you shoot yourself in the foot. The foot-shootin' in this case was misreading the number of zeros on the spool of fluorescent yellow ribbon.
The plan was to pull ashore, shoot an azimuth with the compass and tie highly visible ribbon to trees along the route to an unnamed lake a mile away. Good plan, eh? Not so good if you need about fifty and only have enough ribbon for fourteen. We gave it a shot anyhow. Figured we could resort to some form of Boy Scout idiocy. Like pointer branches, tree blazes or dropping colored pebbles. Well, call it a valiantly attempted, miserable failure. The landing was a slide ashore. The rest was downhill all the way. The swamps too large and our desire marginal. Finally I held the last ribbon position while Al disappeared into the bog. We kept voice contact knowing that if I could still hear him, he hadn't fallen off the planet or sunk out of sight. People disappear all the time in Canada. I could accept that. Still, I was very happy to see him return. So we found a piece of high ground and did what all Americans do, took pictures of each other. By the way, I was never a Boy Scout.
Friday arrived with us up in the air about when to leave. The plan called for Saturday but the fishing wasn't great and we were out of wine. We headed down lake after breakfast with the unspoken understanding that should the fishing pick up, we'd stay. Around lunch we paddled back in the sunshine and packed it up. Spend the night in The Pas. Wasn't difficult working our way over the portage and up the Cranberries. It wasn't until we hit First Cranberry that the clouds rolled in. With a mile left we were staring into the teeth of a wall cloud. Picked up the pace.
Under ideal conditions, how long does it take for glassed out water to build into whitecaps? From what we saw, figure two minutes tops. The blow nearly stopped us. When I was thirteen, under similar conditions while in a row boat, some dude with a red beard dove in the lake and bailed me out. Yeah, a young Viking came to the rescue. Doubt that anything would have happened. Cripes, I was holding my own. My Uncle Eddie said that should something similar ever happen again, drop to the bottom of the boat and ride it out. Row back when the wind died down.
So there we were. Holding our own. Waiting for our Viking. Didn't look like that was gonna happen. Guess he'd gotten a little to old in the last half century. And not a square inch of space was left in the bottom of the pack-filled canoe. One thing I knew for sure. We were no more than a quarter mile from the access and there was no way in hell we were going down. I was both scared and pissed at the same time. A little bit of adrenalin pump goin' on. The closest shore was no more than a hundred yards to our right. By angling the bow a few degrees that way, I turned our lack of forward motion into a sideways slide. Wasn't much of a shore, cattails and brush. But it was enough to cut the wind slightly. Slowly we moved forward. Seemed like one of those forever things. Probably fought it no more than fifteen minutes. A fitting ending to our nine Canadian trips. Guess the Great White North didn't want us to leave.
No sooner did we land than the wind died down. And the temperature plummeted. Al went for the Jeep. While I waited, a party of fisherman motored in and off-loaded a nice stringer of walleyes. They'd sure had better luck than us. Then headed straight for the cleaning house and cranked up the hand pump. 'Eerkh, eerkh, eerkh' she went. When Allan returned they were still at it. I asked him to give a listen. "You know what that is?" Pause. "It's the sound of old men masturbating."
On The drive back to The Pas the rains came. The temperature dropped into the forties. A good night to be out of the bush.
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