First Published Fall 2005 Boundary Waters Journal
The #4 Duluth pack has been carefully packed and sits upright, waiting, next to the front door. A medium sized compression sack, occupying the bottom of the pack, contains my clothes for the week. I packed light but did include my favorite fleece jacket to keep the September early morningchill at bay.
Next in the pack is my sleeping bag and pad. The Big Agnes is compressed to the size of a football and I marvel how, although so small and light, it keeps me warm on even the coldest of nights. On top of the inside of the pack sits my new Eureka tent. This is to be my first trip with this tent. I can't wait to crawl inside it that first night near Basswood Falls, the sound of rushing water a wilderness lullaby for a well-deserved sleep after my daylong paddle.
Next to the Duluth pack sits a Granite Gear thwart bag; it contains all the gear I need for some serious fishing. The larger compartment holds a plastic Plano organizer box. This box in turn holds spoons and crankbaits that will surely entice vicious strikes from Jackfish Lake pike. The smaller compartments are filled with jigs and various plastic tails; walleyes and smallies of Fourtown Lake are surely in trouble.
Nestled among the packs are my L.L. Bean Maine Hunting shoes. Over ten years old now, they continue to serve me well. To make certain that they are up to the rigors of this trip I have applied a generous slathering of Sno-Seal. I hope I can wear my Keen sandals most of the time on this trip but acknowledge that September weather in Canoe Country can turn wintry quickly. I need to be prepared.
The maps have been pored over and a challenging route awaits my brother Rick, my nephew Matt, and me. We are veterans of Canoe Country but still anxiously await this 10-day trip to Crooked Lake and points beyond with the excitement of little kids waiting for Christmas morning.
No trip detail has been overlooked; we've been planning our route and preparing our gear for months. My solo Prism waits to be placed in the water, a spare paddle lashed inside. New line has been wound on the fishing reels. Fresh batteries have been placed in the headlamps. New parachute cord has been packed with the trusty old rain tarp. Homemade dehydrated meals are prepared and packed. We are ready.
The irony is not lost on me that although I spend so much money and time buying and preparing my gear the thing that I seek most can't be bought at any price. Yes, it's true that top-notch equipment is fun to fuss with and certainly contributes to a safe and comfortable trip.
Yet it is the lure of wilderness that pulls me north to Ely. It is the immersion in this wilderness that I crave; an addict of all things wild I desperately need my B dubs fix.
Sadly, there are too few places remaining where one can lose himself in pure wilderness. Fortunately, the BWCAW and Quetico is within a day's ride of my home and I appreciate how lucky I am to live so near such pure, wild lands.
Great men and women fought long and hard to preserve this wondrous place so that people like me can enjoy this last wilderness. They courageously fought careless men who would profit from developing this pristine wilderness because they understood better and appreciated more the true value of this land, water and sky. They knew this land must remain forever wild. They understood that this land is priceless.
So there is nothing left to do but wait. The pack waits next to the door. The magical day of departure approaches. Daydreams of our impending trip lengthen and increase in frequency even as the days grow shorter as summer dies and the year inches closer to its conclusion. I need to get away from my life for a while. I need to spend 10 days where my most pressing daily decision is. . . "Original Recipe Shore Lunch or Cajun Style?"
There are some men who can live quite happily without wilderness. Gladly, I cannot. So imagine how I felt when the people I work for told me 48 hours before I was to leave for Ely that work demands would keep me at the office. Imagine my despair.
The packs waiting next to the door are too painful a reminder of what could have been. Too painful of a reminder of what should have been. So all of the gear is taken downstairs and stored in the basement; out of sight but not out of mind.
#
Thin fingers of flame penetrate and engulf the tepee of branches in the small campfire. Thick pungent smoke spirals up, fragrant and raw. The wood, scavenged off the forest floor, is not perfect firewood due to its rotted and moist condition; yet it suits my purposes just fine and makes a perfectly acceptable little campfire.
The fire mesmerizes me. I sit in silence in the near dark and enjoy the flame, the smoke, the crackle and settling of the wood. I feed the fire more wood as it feeds me.
Songbirds chirp and flit in the trees above me, preparing for a night on the roost. The moon rises burnt orange. I enjoy my seemingly aloneness but my reverie is too soon shattered as a car chugs up the hill on the subdivision road outside the east side of my property.
It was bittersweet fun while it lasted to imagine my little campfire glowed on the shores of Friday Bay. But it is folly to try and transform my suburban landscape into an acceptable replacement for the BWCAW. I am pathetic.
What adventures did Matt and Rick enjoy this day? I sit and wonder under the orange moon. What are their thoughts this night as they sit mesmerized before their own flames more than 500 miles to the North?
#
This trip was going to be more than fishing adventure on Crooked Lake; more than paddling and portaging an aggressive route. It was a trip designed to embrace and immerse ourselves in the history and magic of Canoe Country.
A good friend had pinpointed a place on my map that is the very location of the rock where Sig Olsen often sat and contemplated the waters of Crooked Lake. Our list of things to do also included visiting the area pictographs, including the famous 'eccentric Moose?. A fresh copy of Listening Point was packed to be read in private in my tent but also so I could share around the campfire my favorite excerpts from this old friend of a book.
These thoughts visit me during my busy workday. My focus should be on the task at hand yet I find myself feeling sorry for myself. I find myself traveling North in my mind, imaging what Rick and Matt are up to.
It is Tuesday and I torture myself by reviewing the trip itinerary on my laptop. I click on the word document to open it but this is a redundant exercise. I know its contents by heart.
Today is the scheduled day trip from Sunday Bay on Crooked Lake to little-visited Jackfish Lake. I've been told the lake teems with fish and that the paddle down the river is breathtakingly beautiful.
In my mind's eye I see Rick and Matt paddling silently down the river. The morning is brisk, the birch leaves turning golden, nodding in the gentle breeze. Around a bend the men slide by on silent water, their breath momentarily taken by the sight of a bull moose standing tall on the boggy shore.
Onward they glide towards Jackfish Lake. They stop only briefly for a quick rest and snack. This is my daydream so they are snacking on leftover walleye fillets wrapped in tortillas.
Once on the lake they cast wobbly spoons and noisy surface plugs. The Jackfish Lake pike are famished and unschooled in the way of anglers. It's almost too easy catch a thick pike on every cast. They laugh at the sheer joy of it.
Too soon the sun dips deep and the boys head back upstream to their Crooked Lake camp. A pair of mallards knife through the gathering dusk. It's been a good day.
#
I make it through the workweek. I put in over 60 hours and I am beat. In an attempt to refresh my spirit I spend Saturday morning fly fishing a Lake Michigan tributary but the salmon run has not yet begun in earnest. I fish for a couple of hours then head home. My heart's not in it.
When I get home I have a voicemail message from Rick. I return the call to his cell phone and as he and Matt begin their trip home he downloads me on the details of the trip.
The weather, save for one rainy day, was spectacular. The campsites we circled on the map were available and among the very best he has experienced. The pictographs were awe- inspiring. They rarely saw any other people. He claims the fishing was slow, which surprises me. (I think that perhaps he is being kind and doesn't want to make me feel worse than I already do; I bet they hammered 'em).
How was your trip to Jackfish, I ask?
He laughs. "You won't believe it. I'll show you the photos." Turns out the water levels were extremely low and the mud levels extremely high. They fought to push and pull the canoe through the muck but finally had to abandon the effort. They searched in vain for a portage that would take them from the trickle-of-a-river to the lake. They never found it. "It was humid - probably 75 degrees - but at least the mosquitoes were hungry." We both laugh. They never made it to Jackfish. I don't bother sharing my daydream account of that day.
We chat some more and he assures me that "it wasn't the same without you." Despite the claims of less than stellar angling and the aborted trip to Jackfish my brother declares it among the finest trips he has ever taken, an adventure that tested his outdoor skills to their fullest.
I am happy for Rick and Matt. A trip of a lifetime was achieved. And in my happiness for them only a sliver of regret lingers. It's time to move on.
After all, plans needed to be made for next year. That's the solace one can always take at the end of a B dubs trip. Even at the end of a trip that never happened.
There's always the next time.
"You know," I begin, "If we go up right after ice out I bet Jackfish Creek will be full of water. We'd have no trouble getting down to the lake."
Rick just laughs at me.
Recent Comments