First order of business at Iskwasum was finding a ranger so we could buy a parking pass. Turned out it was easier finding the truck than the man and we waited patiently outside the outhouse while he finished whatever it was he was doing inside. A few minutes later, parking pass on the dash, we set to loading the canoe surrounded by an armada of walleye boats, each packing two hundred horses that were resting on the gravel after a hard morning's trolling. Yeah, this was meat hunter territory. A short gallop downriver took the horses and their riders to a lake noted for its big pickerel. Seemed the campground's plan for the week was to head east. Ours was northwest.
For the first time we entered the park on the Grass River rather than one of the lakes. The flow we paddled onto was brush-lined placid and heavily bog-stained. Back in '98 we'd asked the breakfasting ranger if it was possible to paddle upstream from Iskwasum to Elbow Lake on the Grass. His answer was a simple, "Don't see why not." That was our Plan C and it'd been simmering on a back burner since day one. However, our goal this year was beyond Elbow, across two portages that may or may not be there. Like Norris, we knew nothing of Claw Lake beyond it being on the map. At around two thousand island-filled acres it sure looked good, a lot like Wedge had looked to us in '99, only more remote. How could we go wrong?
Twenty minutes of easy upstream paddling found us on the main body of Iskwasum, bucking the slightest of northwest breezes beneath popcorn clouds floating in a deep blue sky, a perfect day to be in a canoe. For the moment we had the lake to ourselves, just the way we liked it. However, this was the second weekend of fishing season and we knew true solitude wouldn't begin till we'd put the first set of rapids behind us. Seems to me in today's world of big boats and big motors, rapids form the doors to wilderness. Being dead on the water with the bottom blown out of your outboard, eight miles from any help, is no way to spend the day (or night). Can't fault the logic in that.
Mid-lake we were approached from the stern by a boat and motor. Rather than passing, it pulled alongside. Dear Lord, the man was in a fifteen foot Lund powered by a rear-tiller, twenty horse motor. Outside of it gleaming like the sun and being covered with fishing equipment decals, his rig could have been at home in 1963. Black hair, deeply tanned with a pencil thin mustache, Bob and his black lab idled along with us and we each passed a few words as to our intentions. A few seconds later he said he'd meet us upriver at our campsite after he'd caught a few pickerel. Guess he knew the area.
We came upon a cluster of family-sized fishing parties trolling the water below the first set of rapids. On the south shore a family of four admired their stringer of fish. Looked like they were boating their share of pickerel and having a fine time. Looked like a Canadian version of a Monet painting. They paid us no heed as we slid past, nosed into the first chute, paddled for all we were worth above a school of foot-long fish heading our direction, and in a minute left civilization behind.
Our first camp was a few miles beyond on a small, river-splitting island. Wasn't much of an island but was typical of those we'd found in Canada, a little dirt and duff, a handful of birch and pine, and a whole lot of rock. However, the landing was good and the tent site level. Greeting us was the man we'd met a couple of hours earlier. He was throwing a ball far into the river and his black dog seemed to be having a great time romping after it.
In the ten minutes we spent together sharing a smoke, Bob spoke of being a fishing guide in the spring and summer, a hunting guide in the fall, an equipment rep at the sportsmen shows down south in the winter, and having an understanding wife. Also was the man who guided Hap Wilson on his paddle through the park. Sounded to us that had we been seeking the Man Who Knew we'd have already found him.
In fifty words or less Allan and I explained what our plans were for the two weeks and received a reply in an accent that sounded like Bob had gone to school to learn Canadian Backwoodsese,
"You boys are doin' it right, eh. Seein' the backcountry is the way to learn this country. Most Americans come up here with their big boats and fish finders and think they're seein' the real Canada but they don't have a clooo, eh. Canoe and portage, yeah that's the way to learn this land."
He turned to Al and said, "You've got a cool old man."
What could I say to that? Maybe I blushed. In most every way you can think of, I'm not cool in the least. Probably not uncool either. I just do what I do. But to get a compliment like that, where we were and doing what we were doing, yeah, it sure made me feel good, eh.
For a minute we talked lakes. He knew nothing of Claw Lake, in fact hadn't heard of it. However he did offer to take us to a lake where the pickerel were a fish a cast. Added it was a two mile swamp slog to the bay where his boat was stashed. Allan piped up, "Could that be Barb Lake? If there's time we've been thinking of fishing it on our way out." That Allan knew of Barb Lake got a rise out of Bob's eyebrows.
Before leaving Bob offered us half his stringer of walleyes for dinner. Seemed he was four over the limit. No doubt he'd caught them with our supper in mind. It hurt like hell to turn him down. I explained we already had thawed ribeye steaks in the cooler. Bob simply said, "Yah, you boys are doin' it right," hopped in the Lund with his dog and they were off.
Wednesday, May 31, 2017
Tuesday, May 30, 2017
Well I'll Be Jiggered - 2002
We spent the night at the new Super 8 motel in The Pas. Even got there early enough to get a pizza and a couple of ales at the bar and grill across the parking lot. That may not sound like a big deal but this was the first time we rolled into The Pas before sunset. Things were flowing smoothly and we were in no hurry. Our goal for the morning was to be rested, somehow cross Reed Lake, camp near the portage, and maybe get in some evening fishing. Reed was noted for big pike and lake trout and who were we to say no to that possibility? The Canadian weather channel said the morning would bring mostly fair skies and light breezes. Things were looking good.
A few days earlier I was visited by one of those portentous dreams I get now and then that seem to have something important to say but usually have me scratching my head in the morning and wondering, "What the hell was that all about?" In this one Allan and I drove under a massive log gateway that welcomed us to the Reed Lake access and campground. The place was crawling with tourists and looked like an amusement park. A few hundred yards ahead huge pleasure boats puttered by on the water. Not at all what we were expecting when beginning a paddle into the Canadian bush. As usual, I wrote the dream off as another cryptic message about something not at all related to the pictures in the dream.
Both Allan and I were bubbly, pumped, excited, you name it, that's what we were, on our drive to the Reed Lake access. Along the way, about twenty miles from our goal, we passed a series of bays along the south side of big Simonhouse Lake. Could have been the second that caught our eye. In all our winter thoughts and daydreaming, not once did we see the piles of lake ice lining the lake's shore. Didn't take but a single glance for our bubbles to freeze. Moments later we hung a left into the Simonhouse access with hopes of finding reassurance, a pat on the back, and a 'there, there, it's okay.' A tour of the lanes led us to the lone party of American fishermen and their storehouse of liquor. Yup, their booze had its own tent. Never seen that before and from the looks of the fishermen they were having a hard time seeing anything also. There we learned the ice had come off the lake two days earlier and that lake trout may as well have been called Canadian carp for all they were worth. While we talked, one of the good old boys stood up, said he had to go take a leak, turned around, and let fire. Having learned all we needed to know and being thankful for dry shoes, we slowly backed away and continued on our way to destiny.
Twenty minutes later we entered Reed's driveway. Thankfully there was no massive, timbered gate. However, there was a crowd of paunched, plaid-shirted fishermen milling about who seemed to have lost their direction in life. A glance at ice-bound Reed told the story. In the thirty yards of open water along the shore a twenty foot walleye boat puttered by. Damnation! Sometimes my dreams are a curse. We parked, climbed out, and approached a man with tears in his eyes crying, "Only the second time in seventeen years this has happened. Lord, Lord, why me?"
Lucky for us, we had backup plans B and C. Both were created with the idea crossing Reed would scare the pants off of us. B would have taken us along a possibly protected south shore and eventually down the Grass River to Tramping Lake. The ice said that was out so we went with plan C, hopped back in the Jeep, and roared off, backtracking ten miles to the access on Lake Iskwasum. Once again our bubbles inflated knowing that in less than an hour we were heading to points unknown (and unexpected).
A few days earlier I was visited by one of those portentous dreams I get now and then that seem to have something important to say but usually have me scratching my head in the morning and wondering, "What the hell was that all about?" In this one Allan and I drove under a massive log gateway that welcomed us to the Reed Lake access and campground. The place was crawling with tourists and looked like an amusement park. A few hundred yards ahead huge pleasure boats puttered by on the water. Not at all what we were expecting when beginning a paddle into the Canadian bush. As usual, I wrote the dream off as another cryptic message about something not at all related to the pictures in the dream.
Both Allan and I were bubbly, pumped, excited, you name it, that's what we were, on our drive to the Reed Lake access. Along the way, about twenty miles from our goal, we passed a series of bays along the south side of big Simonhouse Lake. Could have been the second that caught our eye. In all our winter thoughts and daydreaming, not once did we see the piles of lake ice lining the lake's shore. Didn't take but a single glance for our bubbles to freeze. Moments later we hung a left into the Simonhouse access with hopes of finding reassurance, a pat on the back, and a 'there, there, it's okay.' A tour of the lanes led us to the lone party of American fishermen and their storehouse of liquor. Yup, their booze had its own tent. Never seen that before and from the looks of the fishermen they were having a hard time seeing anything also. There we learned the ice had come off the lake two days earlier and that lake trout may as well have been called Canadian carp for all they were worth. While we talked, one of the good old boys stood up, said he had to go take a leak, turned around, and let fire. Having learned all we needed to know and being thankful for dry shoes, we slowly backed away and continued on our way to destiny.
Twenty minutes later we entered Reed's driveway. Thankfully there was no massive, timbered gate. However, there was a crowd of paunched, plaid-shirted fishermen milling about who seemed to have lost their direction in life. A glance at ice-bound Reed told the story. In the thirty yards of open water along the shore a twenty foot walleye boat puttered by. Damnation! Sometimes my dreams are a curse. We parked, climbed out, and approached a man with tears in his eyes crying, "Only the second time in seventeen years this has happened. Lord, Lord, why me?"
Lucky for us, we had backup plans B and C. Both were created with the idea crossing Reed would scare the pants off of us. B would have taken us along a possibly protected south shore and eventually down the Grass River to Tramping Lake. The ice said that was out so we went with plan C, hopped back in the Jeep, and roared off, backtracking ten miles to the access on Lake Iskwasum. Once again our bubbles inflated knowing that in less than an hour we were heading to points unknown (and unexpected).
Saturday, May 27, 2017
Up the River - 2002
2002 was to be the trip of trips and it was but for completely unforeseen reasons. Call it ignorance or shortsightedness, call it what you want but by now we'd wandered into the north land bush enough times to know better. No matter a person's plans, nature rules the roost. But regardless of circumstance, we were ready as could be.
Back in '98 Manitoba Tourism had sent me several sketchy maps of Grass River Park. Near the north edge of one, trailing off the map, was a path labelled 'Four Mile Portage.' Struck me that only a fool would haul two hundred and fifty pounds of food, gear, and canoe that far to points unknown. There was no way I'd ever consider doing something that stupid, sloughed it off to the side, and over time the map disappeared. Odd thing was, I never forgot the portage. Sometime during the 2001 trip I must have mentioned it to Allan. We might even have discussed the off the map possibilities a four mile portage might lead us to. Over the fall and winter months the idea of heading to points unknown grew to be a definite maybe. I ordered maps from Manitoba just in case, poured over them, day dreamt of vague lakes to the north while staring through the windshield on the job, and eventually plotted a trip that grew to be a quest.
By spring we agreed this was something we wanted to do and grew excited by both its sheer idiocy, the possibility of huge fish, and the magic of the unknown. Yes, this time we were definitely going to paddle out of the box and fish outside the envelop or something to that effect. One notion we gave little thought till the day grew close was the opening leg as it slowly dawned on us it was the most dangerous part of the trip. The ten mile paddle across fifty thousand acre Reed Lake was an open invitation to disaster. A year earlier I'd read a Manitoba wilderness guide by Hap Wilson that included crossing Reed. He and his wife were experienced and talented paddlers and had used a spray skirt on their canoe when Reed's waves grew to danger level. Even then Wilson said Reed was a harrowing lake. Our crossing would be in an open canoe and loaded to the gills. I hated the idea of following the shoreline and nearly doubling the passage but it might be the only way that made sense.
Then there was the portage. We weren't gut-busting capable of toting two, ninety pound bales over the nine mile long Grand Portage like the Voyageurs of old. Hell, I wasn't capable of hoisting a hundred and eighty pounds much less move it. Looked like we needed to pare down our load and come up with a strategy. There was no doubt in my mind we'd have to triple portage the load in stages of about a hundred and sixty rods each. The way we'd do it, four miles of path called for eight miles of carry and four of going back for more and calling that a rest; leap frogging our way across from Reed to Morton Lake. Throw in a couple of snack breaks and I figured our hike at close to six hours. Odd thing was, we were excited about the misery.
Once across we faced a dilemma. Morton was tied up and locked in by Manitoba. The fishing guide said we couldn't so much as wet a line in Morton unless we were Canadian citizens or had written permission from one of the lodges back on Reed. Not sure what that was all about but it seemed someone had friends in high places. Once across the portage we faced the choice of paddling the length of six mile long Morton, maybe fishlessly camp for a night along the way, or do a short carry into the next lake, File, where we could at least fish if the notion struck us. More likely, after the portage and paddle, call it a day on File, eat a lot, and turn in early. Whatever we did would be decided by how our bodies felt at the end of the carry.
In a perfect world over the next day or two we'd continue our trek though a corner of fifteen thousand acre File, do a half-mile, semi-bushwhack into little Corley Lake to the west, and finally turn south on what looked like a short river trip into Norris lake with no doubt a short portage or two along the way. All-in-all we were facing twenty to twenty-five miles of paddle and around five miles of portage to a lake we knew nothing of besides seeing it on the map. Yes we were foolish but knew once we reached File we could call it a trip, base camp, and have wonderful fishing. Nothing was set in stone save we were going and would no doubt have a good time.
As to equipment, the only item of significance where we could save weight was the canoe. Exchanging aluminum for Kevlar would save close to twenty pounds and that became the plan. At a springtime scratch and dent sale of quality boats I found a Wenonah! Spirit II that fit the bill. Wide, deep, and light, it was built for big water. By late May the Jeep was loaded, the new canoe strapped atop, and we were rolling out of the driveway in Minneapolis with our sights set, once again, on The Pas.
Back in '98 Manitoba Tourism had sent me several sketchy maps of Grass River Park. Near the north edge of one, trailing off the map, was a path labelled 'Four Mile Portage.' Struck me that only a fool would haul two hundred and fifty pounds of food, gear, and canoe that far to points unknown. There was no way I'd ever consider doing something that stupid, sloughed it off to the side, and over time the map disappeared. Odd thing was, I never forgot the portage. Sometime during the 2001 trip I must have mentioned it to Allan. We might even have discussed the off the map possibilities a four mile portage might lead us to. Over the fall and winter months the idea of heading to points unknown grew to be a definite maybe. I ordered maps from Manitoba just in case, poured over them, day dreamt of vague lakes to the north while staring through the windshield on the job, and eventually plotted a trip that grew to be a quest.
By spring we agreed this was something we wanted to do and grew excited by both its sheer idiocy, the possibility of huge fish, and the magic of the unknown. Yes, this time we were definitely going to paddle out of the box and fish outside the envelop or something to that effect. One notion we gave little thought till the day grew close was the opening leg as it slowly dawned on us it was the most dangerous part of the trip. The ten mile paddle across fifty thousand acre Reed Lake was an open invitation to disaster. A year earlier I'd read a Manitoba wilderness guide by Hap Wilson that included crossing Reed. He and his wife were experienced and talented paddlers and had used a spray skirt on their canoe when Reed's waves grew to danger level. Even then Wilson said Reed was a harrowing lake. Our crossing would be in an open canoe and loaded to the gills. I hated the idea of following the shoreline and nearly doubling the passage but it might be the only way that made sense.
Then there was the portage. We weren't gut-busting capable of toting two, ninety pound bales over the nine mile long Grand Portage like the Voyageurs of old. Hell, I wasn't capable of hoisting a hundred and eighty pounds much less move it. Looked like we needed to pare down our load and come up with a strategy. There was no doubt in my mind we'd have to triple portage the load in stages of about a hundred and sixty rods each. The way we'd do it, four miles of path called for eight miles of carry and four of going back for more and calling that a rest; leap frogging our way across from Reed to Morton Lake. Throw in a couple of snack breaks and I figured our hike at close to six hours. Odd thing was, we were excited about the misery.
Once across we faced a dilemma. Morton was tied up and locked in by Manitoba. The fishing guide said we couldn't so much as wet a line in Morton unless we were Canadian citizens or had written permission from one of the lodges back on Reed. Not sure what that was all about but it seemed someone had friends in high places. Once across the portage we faced the choice of paddling the length of six mile long Morton, maybe fishlessly camp for a night along the way, or do a short carry into the next lake, File, where we could at least fish if the notion struck us. More likely, after the portage and paddle, call it a day on File, eat a lot, and turn in early. Whatever we did would be decided by how our bodies felt at the end of the carry.
In a perfect world over the next day or two we'd continue our trek though a corner of fifteen thousand acre File, do a half-mile, semi-bushwhack into little Corley Lake to the west, and finally turn south on what looked like a short river trip into Norris lake with no doubt a short portage or two along the way. All-in-all we were facing twenty to twenty-five miles of paddle and around five miles of portage to a lake we knew nothing of besides seeing it on the map. Yes we were foolish but knew once we reached File we could call it a trip, base camp, and have wonderful fishing. Nothing was set in stone save we were going and would no doubt have a good time.
As to equipment, the only item of significance where we could save weight was the canoe. Exchanging aluminum for Kevlar would save close to twenty pounds and that became the plan. At a springtime scratch and dent sale of quality boats I found a Wenonah! Spirit II that fit the bill. Wide, deep, and light, it was built for big water. By late May the Jeep was loaded, the new canoe strapped atop, and we were rolling out of the driveway in Minneapolis with our sights set, once again, on The Pas.
Tuesday, May 23, 2017
Bear Lake - 2001
We scouted both camp sites on Bear, one sucked and the other was splendid, maybe the best we had in Canada. The landing was a flat slab of basalt level with the lake, the tent site stood thirty feet above, and gave us a catbird's seat for half the lake. The only drawback to Bear was it's easy access to the lodge back in Cranberry Portage and the boats they'd stashed on the lake's river entrance. Most every mid-day we were joined by at least one party trolling up and down the main body of the lake with the hope of the 'fish of a lifetime' on their minds. From what we saw, all went home disappointed.
As it turned out fishing Bear proved worth leaving Brunne. Al, as usual, caught his share of large pike and more than his share of walleyes. A chain of forested islands surrounded the bay behind our camp formed something of a lake within a lake. Within were large beds of emergent cabbage and excellent fishing. It was in those two hundred acres that we spent most of our time on the water. One pike comes to mind.
Ninety percent of the northerns we caught were far more annoying than large. Over the years we boated better than two full cords of snakes and hammer-handles. We'd graduated to the point where a two-foot pike was reason to yank our spinners from the water as fast as we could crank. But here on Bear that wasn't always possible when working the dense cover of the cabbage beds. One evening Allan was motor boating a little guy toward the canoe when suddenly it turned tail and began stripping line from his reel. Was odd enough an occurrence for me to put down my rod, light up, and watch the show. Al worked the powerful, little bugger through three or four line smoking runs before finally horsing the fish close to the canoe. It was there the pike once again turned hammer-handle small. A split second later, the boat was solidly walloped from below like the climax of Moby Dick. A six inch wide bite mark across the little guy's back told us what'd happened. Only one thing to do, Al did a quick needle-nose-twisting-release, fired a rapid cast, hooked up, and showed us what had been trying for an easy meal. Call Allan's forty inch pike a twice-caught fish. As usual he tailed, revived, and released her gently. Consider that for a moment; we impaled a fish through the face with sharpened steel, ripped 'er toward us no matter how hard she tried to get away then gently turned 'er loose as thoguh we were good Samaritans. Yup, fishing sure is fun in a sadistic kind of way.
Across the lake from us swam a nesting pair of loons that seemed intent on filling the air with their yodeling most every waking hour of the day. Finally curiosity got the better of us and we pulled out the binoculars. Above the pair, perched atop a jack pine, sat a bald eagle, no doubt figuring on a tiny fluff-ball snack. Several times each day we watched the eagle as it soared from behind our camp and across the lake to its branch above the caterwauling loons. There it would sit lusting for hours on end and thinking thoughts only lonely eagles can think.
We had enough close views of the bird as it passed to see it was missing one of its enormous wing feathers. We came to think of the it as 'Old Notch.' I doubt he/she knew we existed till one early morning. Doubt it was later than six. I'd quietly slipped out of the tent to have a few minutes alone. There was no better place in camp to sit and watch the world go by than on a lichen-covered, slab of rock overlooking the lake. There I lit up and quietly mused about how someday I'd write of this moment. Maybe get all philosophical about the meaning of life and its connection to the play of breezes on the water below. Before I dipped more than an inch into that pile of manure, over my right shoulder and getting louder by the second I heard the beating of wings; Old Notch of course. Considering my small arms fire and chainsaw damaged ears, it says a lot about the beauty of silence that I was able to hear the thumping beat of a pair of wings and the rush of air over them.
Instead of beating his/her way directly across Bear, this time Notch hung a left toward where I sat motionless and trying my darnedest not to breathe. Call the distance twenty feet when I came into the bird's line of sight. If Notch's face full of feathers could show emotion, and at that moment I came to believe it could, then he/she shot me a look of shock, surprise, and fear. Also dropped a load before cranking into a full one-eighty turn and skedaddled back to where Notch came from.
Call our last day on the water Allan's gift. To that point we'd had nearly perfect weather, almost too good. Being a Minnesotan I knew it couldn't last. Our intention was to leave on Thursday so we'd for sure be home in time for the Saturday wedding. However, when we awoke on leaving day the two of us dragged butt around camp and mostly stared at the sky or ground. A half hour's packing moved us ten minutes closer to leaving. In short, we were going nowhere in a hurry. Finally Allan piped up, assured me the weather would hold through tomorrow, and an early start on Friday morning would find us home during Saturday's wee hours. Looked like we were going fishing.
Turned out we were on the water from mid-morning till sunset. Call that twelve hours and a lunch break. We never did boat a fish of size but the numbers would've been impressive had we been counting. Around nine p.m. we caught our last fish, caught another last fish a little after nine, and finally caught the last, last fish close to eleven. Fifteen years later this day showed up in Between Thought and the Treetops. I'm not creative enough to pull stories out of the air, instead I do like a lot of novelists and provide a fictional background for the things I've actually done and seen over the years.
Yes, after fourteen miles on the water, one portage, and nine hundred miles of pavement, we did make it home in the wee hours of Saturday morning. Hell of a day.
As it turned out fishing Bear proved worth leaving Brunne. Al, as usual, caught his share of large pike and more than his share of walleyes. A chain of forested islands surrounded the bay behind our camp formed something of a lake within a lake. Within were large beds of emergent cabbage and excellent fishing. It was in those two hundred acres that we spent most of our time on the water. One pike comes to mind.
Ninety percent of the northerns we caught were far more annoying than large. Over the years we boated better than two full cords of snakes and hammer-handles. We'd graduated to the point where a two-foot pike was reason to yank our spinners from the water as fast as we could crank. But here on Bear that wasn't always possible when working the dense cover of the cabbage beds. One evening Allan was motor boating a little guy toward the canoe when suddenly it turned tail and began stripping line from his reel. Was odd enough an occurrence for me to put down my rod, light up, and watch the show. Al worked the powerful, little bugger through three or four line smoking runs before finally horsing the fish close to the canoe. It was there the pike once again turned hammer-handle small. A split second later, the boat was solidly walloped from below like the climax of Moby Dick. A six inch wide bite mark across the little guy's back told us what'd happened. Only one thing to do, Al did a quick needle-nose-twisting-release, fired a rapid cast, hooked up, and showed us what had been trying for an easy meal. Call Allan's forty inch pike a twice-caught fish. As usual he tailed, revived, and released her gently. Consider that for a moment; we impaled a fish through the face with sharpened steel, ripped 'er toward us no matter how hard she tried to get away then gently turned 'er loose as thoguh we were good Samaritans. Yup, fishing sure is fun in a sadistic kind of way.
Across the lake from us swam a nesting pair of loons that seemed intent on filling the air with their yodeling most every waking hour of the day. Finally curiosity got the better of us and we pulled out the binoculars. Above the pair, perched atop a jack pine, sat a bald eagle, no doubt figuring on a tiny fluff-ball snack. Several times each day we watched the eagle as it soared from behind our camp and across the lake to its branch above the caterwauling loons. There it would sit lusting for hours on end and thinking thoughts only lonely eagles can think.
We had enough close views of the bird as it passed to see it was missing one of its enormous wing feathers. We came to think of the it as 'Old Notch.' I doubt he/she knew we existed till one early morning. Doubt it was later than six. I'd quietly slipped out of the tent to have a few minutes alone. There was no better place in camp to sit and watch the world go by than on a lichen-covered, slab of rock overlooking the lake. There I lit up and quietly mused about how someday I'd write of this moment. Maybe get all philosophical about the meaning of life and its connection to the play of breezes on the water below. Before I dipped more than an inch into that pile of manure, over my right shoulder and getting louder by the second I heard the beating of wings; Old Notch of course. Considering my small arms fire and chainsaw damaged ears, it says a lot about the beauty of silence that I was able to hear the thumping beat of a pair of wings and the rush of air over them.
Instead of beating his/her way directly across Bear, this time Notch hung a left toward where I sat motionless and trying my darnedest not to breathe. Call the distance twenty feet when I came into the bird's line of sight. If Notch's face full of feathers could show emotion, and at that moment I came to believe it could, then he/she shot me a look of shock, surprise, and fear. Also dropped a load before cranking into a full one-eighty turn and skedaddled back to where Notch came from.
Call our last day on the water Allan's gift. To that point we'd had nearly perfect weather, almost too good. Being a Minnesotan I knew it couldn't last. Our intention was to leave on Thursday so we'd for sure be home in time for the Saturday wedding. However, when we awoke on leaving day the two of us dragged butt around camp and mostly stared at the sky or ground. A half hour's packing moved us ten minutes closer to leaving. In short, we were going nowhere in a hurry. Finally Allan piped up, assured me the weather would hold through tomorrow, and an early start on Friday morning would find us home during Saturday's wee hours. Looked like we were going fishing.
Turned out we were on the water from mid-morning till sunset. Call that twelve hours and a lunch break. We never did boat a fish of size but the numbers would've been impressive had we been counting. Around nine p.m. we caught our last fish, caught another last fish a little after nine, and finally caught the last, last fish close to eleven. Fifteen years later this day showed up in Between Thought and the Treetops. I'm not creative enough to pull stories out of the air, instead I do like a lot of novelists and provide a fictional background for the things I've actually done and seen over the years.
Yes, after fourteen miles on the water, one portage, and nine hundred miles of pavement, we did make it home in the wee hours of Saturday morning. Hell of a day.
Monday, May 22, 2017
Water Thoughts - 2001
Sixteen years does much to cloud a memory, as does being seventy. Though in general I remember most of our days on Brunne, a few odd things stand out. We were trolling the north shore in search of walleyes. I was the motor and Allan was doing the catching, the usual drill for us. Not a lot of fish, but enough to know we were doing something right. Perhaps three walleyes into the paddle Al let me know, in no uncertain terms that trolling sucked. Had to admit he was right. Sitting and watching a rod tip smacks too much of hunting for meat and meat only. Yes, we wanted to catch fish all right but the skill required for trolling is a couple of notches below casting and even more so below pulling out the fly rod.
Casting with either pole pays homage to the work ethic, is more physical, and by far, more mental. Casting calls for continual decision making and control. Picking the best looking spot on shore or along a mid-lake reef and doing your best to throw the lure right on the money is a continual challenge. From my experience there's as much joy to be found in dropping a spinner or fly dead center into a cut in the shoreline as there is in hooking up. Sounds like a load of crap but it's not. Having one shot to a good looking spot knowing a mistake will spook the pool or hang the lure in a bush sure does get the blood flowing and a man's focus up. Call it self-made pressure. A good fishing trip will test a person again and again.
Early on, Allan and I realized it was part of the game to get hung on the bottom or on shore. Paddling in or back is part of the challenge of putting the lure where the fish are. Simply put, fish hang in cover 'cause they want to eat and not be eaten. Our rule was simply, 'you gonna catch fish, you gonna get hung.' Casting calls for expertise, trolling is literally a pain in the ass.
The other moment happen in mid-lake. We were bobbing in the waves and working a reef for whatever we might find but mostly thinking walleyes. By now we'd been in Canada long enough and had enough success to know large northern pike are both exciting and painful. We caught little along the rocks but I did manage to catch a wide-bodied pike of size. Of course she wasn't happy and threw her weight around when I hoisted the fish for a picture. That might have been what made me aware of where were were and what that meant.
The two of us were perched in a tiny aluminum canoe a half mile from the nearest shore, bobbing in swells and instinctively rolling our hips to maintain balance, two portages and seventeen miles away from the nearest flush toilet, five hundred miles north of the border, and nine hundred miles away from home. Damn. Roll the boat and we were screwed. For a moment I was spooked. It was much safer seeing and smelling the water, islands, shore, forest, clouds, and sky than it was to gut feel the reality of our situation. I have a tendency to float along the surface of life. Simpler than being aware of what it is I'm floating on and what's beneath the surface. Get the job done and move on. Out on the water it felt like I was caught in the world between being awake and dreaming. For me fishing has always had its mystical side and bobbing above that reef I was knocking on its door.
Casting with either pole pays homage to the work ethic, is more physical, and by far, more mental. Casting calls for continual decision making and control. Picking the best looking spot on shore or along a mid-lake reef and doing your best to throw the lure right on the money is a continual challenge. From my experience there's as much joy to be found in dropping a spinner or fly dead center into a cut in the shoreline as there is in hooking up. Sounds like a load of crap but it's not. Having one shot to a good looking spot knowing a mistake will spook the pool or hang the lure in a bush sure does get the blood flowing and a man's focus up. Call it self-made pressure. A good fishing trip will test a person again and again.
Early on, Allan and I realized it was part of the game to get hung on the bottom or on shore. Paddling in or back is part of the challenge of putting the lure where the fish are. Simply put, fish hang in cover 'cause they want to eat and not be eaten. Our rule was simply, 'you gonna catch fish, you gonna get hung.' Casting calls for expertise, trolling is literally a pain in the ass.
The other moment happen in mid-lake. We were bobbing in the waves and working a reef for whatever we might find but mostly thinking walleyes. By now we'd been in Canada long enough and had enough success to know large northern pike are both exciting and painful. We caught little along the rocks but I did manage to catch a wide-bodied pike of size. Of course she wasn't happy and threw her weight around when I hoisted the fish for a picture. That might have been what made me aware of where were were and what that meant.
The two of us were perched in a tiny aluminum canoe a half mile from the nearest shore, bobbing in swells and instinctively rolling our hips to maintain balance, two portages and seventeen miles away from the nearest flush toilet, five hundred miles north of the border, and nine hundred miles away from home. Damn. Roll the boat and we were screwed. For a moment I was spooked. It was much safer seeing and smelling the water, islands, shore, forest, clouds, and sky than it was to gut feel the reality of our situation. I have a tendency to float along the surface of life. Simpler than being aware of what it is I'm floating on and what's beneath the surface. Get the job done and move on. Out on the water it felt like I was caught in the world between being awake and dreaming. For me fishing has always had its mystical side and bobbing above that reef I was knocking on its door.
Friday, May 19, 2017
Brunne and Bear - 2001
There were no designated campsites on Brunne Lake. We knew that before leaving home but figured the lake too remote to need any. Our intention was an island site with a panoramic view and a landing every bit as good as the one back on Wedge Lake. There we had a tiny, corner lawn almost level with the water. If Al and I paddled hard and leaned back as we hit the shore, the canoe would actually slide a few feet onto the grass. That we were looking for another every bit as good said we were idiots.
Over the next hour we paddled and circled a fair number of islands and found nothing. Maybe the lack of canoe landings was the reason for no designated campsite on Brunne (or maybe they simply didn't print enough sets of regulations to nail on trees. Could be I forgot to mention that each designated sight was marked with a large, blaze orange diamond made from genuine Canadian plywood and a set of camping rules, both mounted in plain sight. Not real wildernessy but, as I wrote earlier, we were there for the fishing)?
On our return west, off in the distance we spied what looked to be perfect. Over the years we came to understand that didn't mean squat. At a half-mile most every stretch of shore looked good. What seemed level shore was usually atop a three foot ledge. The necessary opening in the forest and doable landing weren't on an island, but instead were on an east-facing peninsula. By now we'd dropped being choosy and shot straight for it. This time the ledge wasn't but two feet high. With a little canoe stabilizing and a dance step or two, one of us at a time, we were able to climb ashore. The open dent in the woods was just large enough to set up a kitchen, erect the tent, and unfold the chairs. We were home.
Over the next few days Allan and I discovered the fishing was good but was disappointing at the same time. We were four lakes and two portages from the access and expected to be boating walleyes by the dozens, many dozens. Retrospect tells me the walleyes were in post-spawn. Not a one we caught was over two pounds, probably males. The ladies were no doubt mid-lake somewhere, suspending, and going through their postpartum depression. Timing is the key to excellent spring walleye fishing and we were off by no more than a week. It was a typical case of, 'you shoulda been here last week.'
Immediately to our north, a portage away, lay two hundred acre Copper Lake. Our map showed no path from Brunne and the ranger made no mention of one, but it was there all right, right where it should be at the closest point between. Again the walleye fishing wasn't what we were hoping. I doubt we boated more than two dozen in our morning. Again, they were all males. Back home in Minnesota a couple of dozen pickerel in a few hours would have been cause for rejoicing. Yeah, we were ugly American greedy bastards.
Back at the access in Cranberry Portage we mentioned our luck on Copper to one of the old-timers. He recalled Copper as it was ten or more years earlier. Said it was the lake closest to virgin he'd ever fished. Then, a few years back, it changed. For some unknown reason what had been a fish a cast slowed dramatically and he had no idea why.
Two years later we came to see what might have been the reason. Years earlier the Canadians had a rail line running east to west across the northern part of the park. Eventually the line was shut down, the rails and ties pulled out. The fine citizens of Snow Lake, twenty miles northeast of Grass River Park saw a golden opportunity and graded the right-of-way smooth as could be. Now it was possible to drive to what had earlier been fly-in water, one of which was Copper Lake.
Over the next hour we paddled and circled a fair number of islands and found nothing. Maybe the lack of canoe landings was the reason for no designated campsite on Brunne (or maybe they simply didn't print enough sets of regulations to nail on trees. Could be I forgot to mention that each designated sight was marked with a large, blaze orange diamond made from genuine Canadian plywood and a set of camping rules, both mounted in plain sight. Not real wildernessy but, as I wrote earlier, we were there for the fishing)?
On our return west, off in the distance we spied what looked to be perfect. Over the years we came to understand that didn't mean squat. At a half-mile most every stretch of shore looked good. What seemed level shore was usually atop a three foot ledge. The necessary opening in the forest and doable landing weren't on an island, but instead were on an east-facing peninsula. By now we'd dropped being choosy and shot straight for it. This time the ledge wasn't but two feet high. With a little canoe stabilizing and a dance step or two, one of us at a time, we were able to climb ashore. The open dent in the woods was just large enough to set up a kitchen, erect the tent, and unfold the chairs. We were home.
Over the next few days Allan and I discovered the fishing was good but was disappointing at the same time. We were four lakes and two portages from the access and expected to be boating walleyes by the dozens, many dozens. Retrospect tells me the walleyes were in post-spawn. Not a one we caught was over two pounds, probably males. The ladies were no doubt mid-lake somewhere, suspending, and going through their postpartum depression. Timing is the key to excellent spring walleye fishing and we were off by no more than a week. It was a typical case of, 'you shoulda been here last week.'
Immediately to our north, a portage away, lay two hundred acre Copper Lake. Our map showed no path from Brunne and the ranger made no mention of one, but it was there all right, right where it should be at the closest point between. Again the walleye fishing wasn't what we were hoping. I doubt we boated more than two dozen in our morning. Again, they were all males. Back home in Minnesota a couple of dozen pickerel in a few hours would have been cause for rejoicing. Yeah, we were ugly American greedy bastards.
Back at the access in Cranberry Portage we mentioned our luck on Copper to one of the old-timers. He recalled Copper as it was ten or more years earlier. Said it was the lake closest to virgin he'd ever fished. Then, a few years back, it changed. For some unknown reason what had been a fish a cast slowed dramatically and he had no idea why.
Two years later we came to see what might have been the reason. Years earlier the Canadians had a rail line running east to west across the northern part of the park. Eventually the line was shut down, the rails and ties pulled out. The fine citizens of Snow Lake, twenty miles northeast of Grass River Park saw a golden opportunity and graded the right-of-way smooth as could be. Now it was possible to drive to what had earlier been fly-in water, one of which was Copper Lake.
Thursday, May 18, 2017
The Road and the Water -2001
Allan ran the music show on our drives to and from the north. Once in a while he'd throw me a bone like The Beatles and almost as often I'd fire up John Prine. But mostly it was Allan and whatever phase he was passing through at the moment. Over the miles I developed the ability to tune out a variety of styles. My forte was hip-hop. Every so often Allan would ask my opinion about the lyrics of a particular tune and I'd have to return from wherever my thoughts were at the moment with a "pardon me?" I said that a lot, sometimes when my attention had wandered and sometimes due to a hearing loss. Al once said I should have 'pardon me' engraved on my tombstone. However, on this trip a couple of songs by the Minneapolis group Semisonic, latched onto my memory and are playing now playing between my ears as I sit here writing.
Somewhere past Ashern we did manage to briefly pick up Canadian Public Radio and a discussion of UFOs. Not something a man wanted to hear when headed into the bush. Being abducted was farther off the map than I'd ever considered traveling.
Once we passed St. Martin Junction there was little to see beyond road, graveled ditch, forest, swamp, or lake. All exotic in their own right if you'd never traveled Highway 6 before. What the heck, this was all a lake bed a few thousand years earlier, that anything at all lined this highway is remarkable.
We had only one turn we could possibly miss in the next three hours and tonight it was well-marked and blocked by a semi-trailer. Seemed the local police and the Mounties were checking for inebriates and maybe smugglers trying to plant Minnesota walleyes in Manitoba's pristine waters. I was more than ready and forced an innocent Mountie to check every legal document in the Jeep. The Canadian government said I needed them and by golly this Mountie was going check all four documents.
Our goal for the evening, like it had been for all of our trips north, was The Pas, mainly 'cause they had beds for rent. Being the dudes we were, it was always a pleasure entering the bush well-rested and clean from beaten-to-hell sneakers on up to crushed-and-slept-on hat. Mine was a genuine Filson. Still have it and may be cremated with it perched atop my head.
We were up and ready by six a.m. As usual we were pumped and in a hurry to reach our goal for the afternoon. We'd have fished Brunne Lake last year had I not broken my ribs. From Cranberry Portage she was fifteen miles of paddle and two portages away, one of which was cut by the ranger we'd talked with in 1998. In case you wonder what Canadians do with their spare time, they cut portages. Don't know why but Canadians sure like to make paths between lakes.
By now we had our paddling and portaging down pat. Unlike last year we left the bay with a gentle tail wind, moved so fast down the lakes we were forced to explore an island on the way. Not sure if our main reason was ecological interest or simply to empty our bladders. The hundred-twenty rod portage to the river exiting Bear Lake flew by, made us wish we'd carried more weight to at least make it interesting.
The portage from Bear into Brunne looked like it'd been cleared with road equipment. A few days later on a hike into an abandoned mine site, we followed another wide trail, this one looked to be lined with ruts from tires. Could be what the ranger called a portage was actually a winter road. Some wilderness eh?
Off to our left in a swampy, pot hole of a valley stood a fifty-five gallon, metal barrel. Not something I expected to see twenty miles from the nearest toilet. A little thought and we figured it a gut barrel for black bears, no doubt set there by a lodge or hunting guide. Much easier to find bears when you've baited the trap. No doubt Pa Crockett used the same technique for three year old Davy. No other way to explain a toddler killing a large omnivore unless the song writer was just blowing smoke. A few yards farther as we crested a gentle rise we came upon an impressive pile of dog crap. With not a dog within a six hour trot and a fair amount of hair and fur binding the droppings, there was little doubt we were in wolf country. Gave us back a little of the wilderness feeling the winter road and bear barrel had taken. Oh well, we were here for the fishing anyhow.
Somewhere past Ashern we did manage to briefly pick up Canadian Public Radio and a discussion of UFOs. Not something a man wanted to hear when headed into the bush. Being abducted was farther off the map than I'd ever considered traveling.
Once we passed St. Martin Junction there was little to see beyond road, graveled ditch, forest, swamp, or lake. All exotic in their own right if you'd never traveled Highway 6 before. What the heck, this was all a lake bed a few thousand years earlier, that anything at all lined this highway is remarkable.
We had only one turn we could possibly miss in the next three hours and tonight it was well-marked and blocked by a semi-trailer. Seemed the local police and the Mounties were checking for inebriates and maybe smugglers trying to plant Minnesota walleyes in Manitoba's pristine waters. I was more than ready and forced an innocent Mountie to check every legal document in the Jeep. The Canadian government said I needed them and by golly this Mountie was going check all four documents.
Our goal for the evening, like it had been for all of our trips north, was The Pas, mainly 'cause they had beds for rent. Being the dudes we were, it was always a pleasure entering the bush well-rested and clean from beaten-to-hell sneakers on up to crushed-and-slept-on hat. Mine was a genuine Filson. Still have it and may be cremated with it perched atop my head.
We were up and ready by six a.m. As usual we were pumped and in a hurry to reach our goal for the afternoon. We'd have fished Brunne Lake last year had I not broken my ribs. From Cranberry Portage she was fifteen miles of paddle and two portages away, one of which was cut by the ranger we'd talked with in 1998. In case you wonder what Canadians do with their spare time, they cut portages. Don't know why but Canadians sure like to make paths between lakes.
By now we had our paddling and portaging down pat. Unlike last year we left the bay with a gentle tail wind, moved so fast down the lakes we were forced to explore an island on the way. Not sure if our main reason was ecological interest or simply to empty our bladders. The hundred-twenty rod portage to the river exiting Bear Lake flew by, made us wish we'd carried more weight to at least make it interesting.
The portage from Bear into Brunne looked like it'd been cleared with road equipment. A few days later on a hike into an abandoned mine site, we followed another wide trail, this one looked to be lined with ruts from tires. Could be what the ranger called a portage was actually a winter road. Some wilderness eh?
Off to our left in a swampy, pot hole of a valley stood a fifty-five gallon, metal barrel. Not something I expected to see twenty miles from the nearest toilet. A little thought and we figured it a gut barrel for black bears, no doubt set there by a lodge or hunting guide. Much easier to find bears when you've baited the trap. No doubt Pa Crockett used the same technique for three year old Davy. No other way to explain a toddler killing a large omnivore unless the song writer was just blowing smoke. A few yards farther as we crested a gentle rise we came upon an impressive pile of dog crap. With not a dog within a six hour trot and a fair amount of hair and fur binding the droppings, there was little doubt we were in wolf country. Gave us back a little of the wilderness feeling the winter road and bear barrel had taken. Oh well, we were here for the fishing anyhow.
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