Emil'd given away some of his camping gear when he'd moved to the woods. Some to Boy Scouts, some to panhandlers. "I sure didn't want to but had no place to store it. Besides, I found the old packs good homes and knew Duluth Pack'd still make them the same as always. New wouldn't be better or worse just less sweat stained."
Once in Grand Marais we began by raiding the Hub Cafe where we did serious damage to their larder then headed down the street to the Ben Franklin. You're no doubt wondering why we were walking into a five and dime. If so, you've never been to the one in Grand Marais. To this day they still stock most everything a camper'd need for the backwoods except good weather. Emil dropped a few dollars that day. Said having his wallet lighter would make for easier portages. Packs, boots, rain gear, pants, shirts, socks and long johns for both of us, all on his dime. Told me the clothes were the half of the time and a half he owed me. Hit the men's room looking like one of those kids who didn't have enough to eat in post-war Europe. Came out like a poster boy for L.L.Bean.
At the IGA we filled the cooler with ice and fresh food. Bought a cherry pie at the bakery. "Your choice Archie. You can get cherry, apple, strawberry rhubarb, even the mincemeat. But if you don't get the cherry you're paying for it and I sure as heck won't eat it."
By ten we were cruising back up the shore under bluebird skies. In the half month we'd been working, the weather had treated us kindly. A little rain at night but not much to speak of during the day. Emil said all signs looked good for the next couple of days.
Would have been easier, 'more expeditious' as Emil said, had we the gear and didn't need the services down in town. Six hours after turning down the McFarland Road there we were again, packed, canoe atop and heading out of the driveway . The McFarland's just another another dust in the rearview mirror, backwoods road 'til it hangs a right beneath the bluffs towering over McFarland. You have to know when they're coming up and know where to look or you'll not see those ancient cliffs. Look too long and the car'll be afloat in the lake. Portage over them and you'll not soon forget them. 'Specially since the fishing on the other side's definitely not worth the effort.
Emil's not a man to rush things and wasted not a minute when he transferred our gear into the new packs, "Done this many a time and doubt I'll forget much. Food, clothing, shelter and fishing gear. And canoe, almost forgot that. And paddles."
Back I trotted to the Nomad. "Did you also want the life jackets?" When I returned to the access on Little John, Emil had a big pie (not cherry, thank God) eating grin on his face.
"Like I said, I've done this many a time. Also forgot a few things now and then."
Four days, no more, that's all we had. Didn't matter, the excitement was still there. Every trip holds the possibility of being the best when the aluminum grinds off the gravel. Spent a lot of miles and years longing for those bests. Then, one morning I woke up and realized all the trips were bests. Maybe best is the wrong word here. More like the inevitable unforeseen and unplanned foulups of each trip added seasoning to the pot. Nowhere in my future on the job daydreaming did I ever figure on rolling the boat, being windbound for days, stuck in the tent during a twelve hour downpour or even as much as I'd always wanted, cracking a couple of ribs. Took a few screw-ups to realize there was a reason I'd packed rain gear, bandaids and aspirin. But not one of those bumps in the road diminished the excitement of sliding onto a lake with a whole world of possibility around the bend, down the rapids and a couple of portages away.
We pushed off on Little John under a high summer sun. The woods we slid past had warmed to mid-day doldrums and reeked of soft-needled cedar and pine. A quarter mile along we came on the doorway to the border lakes. The rapids wasn't long or even difficult. Just enough of a challenge to demand attention to the V's in the current lest I hang us up on a rock. A half minute of fun dropped us onto John Lake. From there our course was up to Emil, north down the Royal River to the Fowl lakes along the border or west to the land of smallmouth bass.
"Give me a choice and I'm a happy man. Yup, a choice is nice even though I'd be a fool to forego the bass of East Pike. Ever tell you about my first trip up here?"
Of course I had and even said so.
"Doesn't matter. We're doing nothing but paddling anyhow. Hush up and listen, you might learn something. You'd think an old canoe man like me'd been doing this stuff since canoes were carved out of logs but no. First time was back in '55 and there were six of us. Big mistake. Fiasco. Snafu and my personal favorite, fubar. Most everybody knows of snafu but fubar's not thrown around as much. Seein' as how I've grown to be a civilized man, thanks to Lena, I'll simply say fubar is fouled up beyond all recognition. Fit our situation perfectly."
"Turned out the boys I'd gone with couldn't bear the sight of a full whiskey bottle. Fine with me but seein' as how they'd come equipped with a case of Old Heaven Hill I should have figured trouble'd come visiting. Not that I've got anything against a nip in camp now and then. A shot of sour mash thinned with lake water while cooking dinner is a fine thing, God's gift and that's all I'd had to drink. The weather was glassed water perfect. The good old boys I was with got a notion to do some night fishing. What seemed at first to be a good idea grew with each cupful into a quest. At night fishing in a canoe when it's challenge enough to stand upright on dry ground, work your fly and find your willie in the right order should give a man reason enough to consider other options."
"Good thing for all of us the first canoe never actually made it onto the lake. Into the lake maybe but definitely not on. Looked like a German u-boat had just been depth charged and two of the crew had bobbed to the surface in hopes of being rescued. Gear everywhere, lifejackets afloat and one of the tipplers was impaled through the meat of his thumb by a bass-o-reno. Red and white as I recall. Fine lure and'd been deadly that afternoon. Didn't as yet know how to remove a fish hook without tearing it out, so come morning we packed it up, hangovers and all and headed to the hospital in Grand Marais to add one more lure onto the emergency room's wall of shame. Worst part was leaving the fishing behind. Never knew smallmouth fishing could be that good. Almost like we had to beat 'em out of the canoes with our paddles. Learned my lesson and never went with those boys again."
Emil paused, I could almost hear his jaw working as he considered his words, "Not much more to say. Guess I should have known better. A body'd have to be a fool to go fishing with fools."
John's no more than a forty minute paddle. Just an enjoyable passage on the way to where we wanted to be. We were both more than ready to have a go at the up and over into East Pike. Our grunt work back at the cabin turned the portage into child's play. Sixty pounds of pack couldn't hold a candle to eighty pounds of premix and our portage load came equipped with carry straps. Hoist and hump, yup, we'd had our share of practice.
Once over, we pushed off toward a fine campsite a quarter mile to our right. Everything we needed was right there. Good landing, stone fire ring with log benches, and a dead level tent pad.
"Archie me lad, no need for us to be greedy. There's no fishing up ahead's any better than we have right at our feet. Don't know about you but I'm here to rest up and maybe catch some bass."
So that's what we did. Fished a lot, sat a lot, ate a lot. Might have been better had Emil bought two pies as we went through the first one in three sittings. We ate and farted like plow horses. On one occasion of being thankful for the lake breeze, Emil held up a finger and exclaimed, "Windows! Never have told you about all the windows on order. Great for the view but even better when it comes to airing a place out. I keep eating northwoods fare after moving indoors and being able to crank all those casement windows open will be a Godsend."
We laughed 'til it hurt. Then went out and caught us some bass. A lot of bass. Big ones, little ones. Didn't matter the size, they all fought like demons.
Of them, the one that'll remain with me forever was the bass Emil tied into on the second evening. East Pike lies along an east-west axis. Must have once been a glacier track scratched out better than ten thousand years before, three miles long and a half mile wide. When the west wind's up it'd get a little choppy at our end. Also perked up the already good fishing as the breeze blew warm water and plankton our way. Little fish eat plankton and big fish eat little fish. Simple fact.
So there we were, maybe an hour of sunlight left and the fishing getting better and better. We'd catch a few, drift in close to shore then paddle out 'til Emil would turn us with a, "seems like we're about four bass out," and in we'd drift.
Don't go thinking those were small bass either. No sir, they were some seriously big smallies we were into. Most every one a solid three pounds. Emil called them Joan Crawfords since both Joan and the bass were females with big shoulders on them. Yeah, he laughed alone on that one.
Anyhow, after six or so drifts Emil tired of the game and dropped the portage anchor. His was simply a mesh bag that'd once held onions. Dropped in a few rounded rocks and tied it off with a length of cord. Weighed next to nothing in the pack and every lake in the north country supplies ballast aplenty. For a few minutes after the drop we caught nothing. Like the world had come to an end and we might as well pack it up and head home. Then my uncle tied into a honker. Bent his rod double and when the fish went into a tail dance we could see it was well over twenty inches. Hands down the biggest bass of the trip. A person loses track of time in a moment like that. Emil laughing and grunting. Me twisted backwards enjoying every minute of the fight as much as my uncle.
Finally the bass went straight down like she thought she was a forty pound lake trout. Emil's rod was bent nearly tip to reel as he turned the fish. That bass was quite a battler alright. Every inch Emil gained, she immediately took back. Time and time again.
"Archie me lad," he huffed out, "I've never had anything on my line like this beauty. Seems a crying shame to catch such a wonder. I've a mind to cut the line and turn it loose."
About then I looked up to see we'd almost drifted into the shore rocks. That sure was weird seeing as how we were anchored down. Emil peeked up from his work, saw the trees and then peered down following the anchor line into the five feet of bog stained water beneath the canoe.
For once I beat him to the punch. "What do you figure the anchor weighs, seven, eight pounds? Must be close to the state record on light tackle. Umm-umm, it'll sure look fine mounted on one of your new cabin walls." Emil looked up, paused for a moment, opened his mouth and oddly, nothing came out.
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