Emil's plan for me was simple, sit there and hold the rod. That's about it. Not very exciting. Well, there was more to it than just that. To start with Emil had me practice casting. A couple of high flies and a low bullet or two were quickly followed by a general grasp of timing.
We started with a trip around our island, looking for likely spots to throw a lure. There, in a little pocket off a point, I caught my first Canadian pike. Wasn't but a hammer handle but it was mine. Or at least it was 'til my lack of experience had me pass the rod to Emil. He had me watch closely while he grabbed the slippery bugger behind the gills and used his pliers to twist the hook out.
"Needle nose 'em in the water if you can. Most times the hooks'll come out easy since I've crimped all the barbs. Otherwise, grab the fish like you mean it. If you get wimpy, the pike'll know you're chicken and wiggle to get free. You'll end up doing more damage to the fish. Simple as that. Yeah, they're slimy as snails so don't lick your fingers after releasing a northern. Don't pick your nose either or the whole world will smell like a pike's patoot."
"There's a pair of pliers in your box with a length of string attached. Tie the pliers off to the thwart behind you just in case you feel the need to drop them in the lake. Experience tells me pliers don't float."
Emil made his own leaders. Instead of wire he used a short length of strong, plastic fishing line. Said the wire ones scared off the fish, particularly lakers and walleyes. He had me clip a silver spoon onto my leader. About a foot and a half above the lure I attached two twist-on sinkers to help lower the spoon where the trout swam. Good thing my Uncle was with me for I had no idea what the heck I was doing.
I gave the rig a fling out to the lakeside exactly as told and we began slowly trolling back and forth in front of the island. That was it. Sitting, waiting, occasionally pulling on the rod. Nothing happening except for a coupla crazy loons in mid-lake getting all loony as the sun once again slowly, very slowly, angled down.
Emil got the first laker. Also the second. And the last. And while he was reeling them in he was singing a victory tune about fish, dish and delish. Me? I got a few more small pike and one decent one. By decent I mean it was the biggest fish I'd ever caught. Even got a "not bad, sorry it's a pike" from my uncle. Yeah, I was a little disappointed being laker skunked. And the old guy in the back having nothing to do with unhooking my fish.
"You're on your own from now on unless the lure's sticking halfway out the fish's backside. Releasing your own fish is all part of the game. Also part of the reason pike aren't a lot of fun to catch unless they're bigguns."
" Don't know how or why but it takes a while for fish to like a person enough to sacrifice themselves. And they sure don't care to be caught by neophytes. An angler has to prove himself to the fish. So, your job is to keep accidentally hooking them 'til they get to know you. Maybe even grow to love you like they love me. Of course I'm better looking, on a higher scale, fin-nancially secure and generally easier for a fish to fall in love with. Sometimes it's all I can do to keep them out of the boat. It's not easy being so handsome you know. And humble to boot."
Wednesday, February 12, 2014
Tuesday, February 11, 2014
Canada XXV - Emil Knows Butter
Once the tent was up and gear stowed, the green, two burner Coleman stove gassed, pumped and fired up. Emil said the Coleman was the only way to fly. Added weight to the load but saved time when it came to meals.
"Butter. South of the Mason-Dixon line lard's the lord of the kitchen. Up in the Northland it's butter. Lord praise the cow and the churn. You can fry taters in it, slather it on toast, brown onions and put a crust on steak. Butter adds yum to the meal and keeps a man regular. Makes his willie point to the North Star. Then, in a pinch you can use it to navigate at night, just ask any sailor and he'll tell you the same. For now I'm simply gonna get my two pans heating. Once they're hot, in goes the yellow gold 'til it foams then I throw in the onions, salt and pepper."
His cutting board was the spare paddle. Emil drew a razor sharp sheath knife from his belt sheath. Then it was chopping and slicing time. Started with a pair of diced baked potatoes followed a few minutes later by the meat. Twenty minutes later we sat to dinner at the shore atop our live jackets. It was a simple meal. Steaks crusted black yet running juice when I split it open. While we ate dish and coffee water heated on the stove.
Eating wasn't talking time. It was wolfing time pure and simple. Guess we were hungry. Conversation returned after our dishes were clean and gear stowed. Emil broke the silence, "This is my favorite time of day, coffee in the cup, pipe lit, coupla cookies in my lap just beggin' to be eaten. Top that off with the better part of an evening to fish."
"Archie me lad, your job tonight is to catch fish. And it'd be nice if you didn't fall in the lake in the process. Unless of course you're pulled in by one of the piscatorial demons out there beneath the waves. If that happens, don't you worry one bit and whatever you do don't let go of your rod. Your life jacket'll keep you topside so I can find you. Not so much that I want you alive and well, though that'd be nice, but it'd be a cryin' shame to lose a fish big enough to haul an over-sized juvenile overboard."
While he talked Emil began stringing the rods. He'd brought five. Four were spinning rods, complete with reels. Having never even seen a spinning reel before. Hadn't a clue how to use one. I was in trouble and you know how it is when a kid's in trouble. Maybe you don't? My reaction to the reels was to clam up and pretend the world and all its mysterious ways were well known to me. Why not? I was a city kid and city kids were hip. And sometimes a little stupid. But fishing was going to be tough unless I opened my mouth.
Uncle Emil was smart enough to know my game and was two steps ahead. "Archie me lad, these here are spinning reels. Until a coupla years ago I didn't know squat about them. Took one look and knew something was strange because the spool was sideways. Figured there was no way a man could cast such a contraption. So I was standing there in the tackle shop turning it every which way, even tasted it. Had a look on my face sayin' I'd be kicking its tires if it had any."
"About then a young man came to the rescue and told me these were the latest thing. From France and were gonna revolutionize fishing. I figured, what the heck, the French make pretty good fried potatoes and toast, why not fishing reels? Then he showed me how it worked and I was hooked. Had to have one. So I bought me a Garcia, rod included and had the man spool the reel with a new kind of plastic line called monofilament. You know what? He was right. It still bird's nests now and then but nothing like the old bait casters. Throws a French spinner a country mile. Never thought an American boy like me would fish with a bunch of French gear. But fish don't recognize national boundaries and even if they did there's a pretty fair French population in Canada so we'd be okay."
While Emil was describing his purchase, he was also demonstrating how the reel worked. The kindness of geezers trumps the fear of men in the budding most every time and I had my eyes glued onto his demonstration.
"Mostly what I learned from that young man, and a whole lot of men and women in my past, was it's okay to admit you don't know something. People are happy to share knowledge. Always have been, always will be."
"By the by, I took the liberty of setting up a small tackle box for you. Hope you don't mind. There's most everything in there to put fish on your line, including luck. That's what the penny is for. Also had it blessed by a priest, bathed in smoke by a Navaho medicine man, mail ordered a voodoo amulet from New Orleans and had a distiller from Kentucky baptize it with three drops of twelve year old bourbon. Now it's up to you."
With that, we loaded the canoe, me in the bow - I'd have said up front but Emil said I best use proper terminology once in a while - ready to go. Emil straddled the stern to keep the Grumman stable 'til he launched us. I was so excited I could have peed my pants.
While he talked Emil began stringing the rods. He'd brought five. Four were spinning rods, complete with reels. Having never even seen a spinning reel before. Hadn't a clue how to use one. I was in trouble and you know how it is when a kid's in trouble. Maybe you don't? My reaction to the reels was to clam up and pretend the world and all its mysterious ways were well known to me. Why not? I was a city kid and city kids were hip. And sometimes a little stupid. But fishing was going to be tough unless I opened my mouth.
Uncle Emil was smart enough to know my game and was two steps ahead. "Archie me lad, these here are spinning reels. Until a coupla years ago I didn't know squat about them. Took one look and knew something was strange because the spool was sideways. Figured there was no way a man could cast such a contraption. So I was standing there in the tackle shop turning it every which way, even tasted it. Had a look on my face sayin' I'd be kicking its tires if it had any."
"About then a young man came to the rescue and told me these were the latest thing. From France and were gonna revolutionize fishing. I figured, what the heck, the French make pretty good fried potatoes and toast, why not fishing reels? Then he showed me how it worked and I was hooked. Had to have one. So I bought me a Garcia, rod included and had the man spool the reel with a new kind of plastic line called monofilament. You know what? He was right. It still bird's nests now and then but nothing like the old bait casters. Throws a French spinner a country mile. Never thought an American boy like me would fish with a bunch of French gear. But fish don't recognize national boundaries and even if they did there's a pretty fair French population in Canada so we'd be okay."
While Emil was describing his purchase, he was also demonstrating how the reel worked. The kindness of geezers trumps the fear of men in the budding most every time and I had my eyes glued onto his demonstration.
"Mostly what I learned from that young man, and a whole lot of men and women in my past, was it's okay to admit you don't know something. People are happy to share knowledge. Always have been, always will be."
"By the by, I took the liberty of setting up a small tackle box for you. Hope you don't mind. There's most everything in there to put fish on your line, including luck. That's what the penny is for. Also had it blessed by a priest, bathed in smoke by a Navaho medicine man, mail ordered a voodoo amulet from New Orleans and had a distiller from Kentucky baptize it with three drops of twelve year old bourbon. Now it's up to you."
With that, we loaded the canoe, me in the bow - I'd have said up front but Emil said I best use proper terminology once in a while - ready to go. Emil straddled the stern to keep the Grumman stable 'til he launched us. I was so excited I could have peed my pants.
Monday, February 10, 2014
Canada XXIV - Old School
At the height of our island we entered a clearing which opened toward the island-lined, east shore of the lake. Uncle Emil said we'd call our site Baldy Knob after his head and a place he'd been in the Appalachians with Aunt Lena. The fire ring we found said we weren't the first to visit. As did the genuine, near to toppling, stick and plywood table leaning nearby.
"The ring tells me this is used as a shore lunch spot. Not a lot of Canucks camp out these days but they favor their beans, taters and walleye in a spot near where they caught them. Good chance there's some fine fishing within a hundred yards of where we're standing at this very moment. Yon table tells me the boys who eat here aren't carpenters and couldn't tell level from their kiesters. And haven't as yet been introduced to the wheel."
"It's true that walleyes make for a good dinner but that's not our game for this evening. Tonight it's ribeyes in the gut and lakers on the water. Big trout in Second Cranberry. Not so much as Lake Atapap over on the other side of Cranberry Portage but even here we've got a shot at a twenty pounder."
While this palaver - that's what Emil said we were having even though it was a little one-sided - was going on, he began roaming the island with a branch saw in hand. Said he was seeking five perfect poles. Each one had to be long and straight, "Long enough so Jacob could get a start on his ladder and weighty enough to cold cock any Martians that might be looking to conquer the planet starting with our campsite. Nip 'em in the bud before they get any big ideas. No greenies from outer space better think they can get drop on Emil the Elegant and Archie the Axe." While he mumbled among the trees I was sent down to the beach to retrieve the stove, rod tubes and last pack.
Gotta tell you those packs were big. And heavy. And liked to grab every piece of brush I passed. And grew heavier with every step I took. But I figured it was best to keep my mouth shut and not let my Uncle think I was a wimp. Besides, it was good exercise and would get me in shape in case we needed to save the planet. Crazy old coot alright. Crazy enough to put a smile on my face.
I'd seen a couple of tents in my few years and what Emil put up was definitely a tent. It had the shape alright, long peaked roof that A-framed to the ground. But the poles he'd cut were on the outside. Paired, crossed and lashed close to the top, one pair up front, the other to the rear. A pole laid and tied lengthwise at the top from the crotch of the front X to the rear one held the frame together. The canvas tent was hung from the frame and tied off to brush, trees and rock. The bottoms of the sides were tucked in and a tarp placed inside as a floor. Emil said the design was even older the he was. Our mattress on the first night was the moss beneath the tarp.
"We'll go with moss for our bed. Don't know about you but for me blowing up two air mattresses for only one night holds no appeal. I doubt our sleeping on them is the moss' idea of a good time. Good thing those little buggers can't make much noise while they're being crushed or their whining would make it hard to get a good night's sleep. I'd be forced to slap them around a bit so we could get some shut-eye. Show them who's boss. First aliens, now moss. Archie me lad, life's not easy in the land of the Mountie."
"The ring tells me this is used as a shore lunch spot. Not a lot of Canucks camp out these days but they favor their beans, taters and walleye in a spot near where they caught them. Good chance there's some fine fishing within a hundred yards of where we're standing at this very moment. Yon table tells me the boys who eat here aren't carpenters and couldn't tell level from their kiesters. And haven't as yet been introduced to the wheel."
"It's true that walleyes make for a good dinner but that's not our game for this evening. Tonight it's ribeyes in the gut and lakers on the water. Big trout in Second Cranberry. Not so much as Lake Atapap over on the other side of Cranberry Portage but even here we've got a shot at a twenty pounder."
While this palaver - that's what Emil said we were having even though it was a little one-sided - was going on, he began roaming the island with a branch saw in hand. Said he was seeking five perfect poles. Each one had to be long and straight, "Long enough so Jacob could get a start on his ladder and weighty enough to cold cock any Martians that might be looking to conquer the planet starting with our campsite. Nip 'em in the bud before they get any big ideas. No greenies from outer space better think they can get drop on Emil the Elegant and Archie the Axe." While he mumbled among the trees I was sent down to the beach to retrieve the stove, rod tubes and last pack.
Gotta tell you those packs were big. And heavy. And liked to grab every piece of brush I passed. And grew heavier with every step I took. But I figured it was best to keep my mouth shut and not let my Uncle think I was a wimp. Besides, it was good exercise and would get me in shape in case we needed to save the planet. Crazy old coot alright. Crazy enough to put a smile on my face.
I'd seen a couple of tents in my few years and what Emil put up was definitely a tent. It had the shape alright, long peaked roof that A-framed to the ground. But the poles he'd cut were on the outside. Paired, crossed and lashed close to the top, one pair up front, the other to the rear. A pole laid and tied lengthwise at the top from the crotch of the front X to the rear one held the frame together. The canvas tent was hung from the frame and tied off to brush, trees and rock. The bottoms of the sides were tucked in and a tarp placed inside as a floor. Emil said the design was even older the he was. Our mattress on the first night was the moss beneath the tarp.
"We'll go with moss for our bed. Don't know about you but for me blowing up two air mattresses for only one night holds no appeal. I doubt our sleeping on them is the moss' idea of a good time. Good thing those little buggers can't make much noise while they're being crushed or their whining would make it hard to get a good night's sleep. I'd be forced to slap them around a bit so we could get some shut-eye. Show them who's boss. First aliens, now moss. Archie me lad, life's not easy in the land of the Mountie."
Friday, February 7, 2014
Canada XXIII - Camp
"Halfway down the lake. Halfway down the lake." If I'd have known what a mantra was that would have been mine. Paddling Second Cranberry started fast and quickly turned endless. Endless roads, now this. But there was no way I was going to let out a peep about tired shoulders. Just kept paddling, tried to find a rhythm that'd work for me and when I got tired, like Emil said, switch sides.
Every so often the canoe would feel like it was going forward but sliding sideways at the same time. Finally, almost as much to pass the time as get advice, I asked what was going on.
"Archie me lad, that's just me straightening us out. Way back when, I learned how to paddle from an old timer, Noah by name. 'Course his boat was way bigger and didn't smell too good. Told me to always grab the small end, then showed me how to turn the paddle into a rudder at the end of the stroke. A stroke with a twist at the end. Don't know if it has a name. Neither did he. But she works and the secret's in the thumb at the top of the paddle. Starts out pointing to the side. Ends up turning and pointing down to the gunwale. Keeps us on course and moving forward at the same time. Efficient you might say. Outside of the pain in my upper arm that is. By the by, don't forget to feather your paddle."
Off to my left was a distant shore. Not like it was way off on the horizon but if I had my bike with me, and if there was a bridge - guess if I can conjure up a bike why not throw in a bridge for good measure? What the heck, throw in one of the big twenty-five ounce bottles of coke chilled in ice water while I'm at it - I figured it would take no more than eight or ten minutes to peddle over. Guess peddling is faster than paddling (careful Archie me lad or you'll turn into Uncle Emil). On the upside, the right shore wasn't but five minutes away.
One thing was for darn sure, traveling in a canoe has little effect on the size of distant islands. I'd paddle for a while, look up, and there, a spot on the horizon, floated a tiny clump of trees. Ten minutes later, same island, same spot, same size. Then I'd look over the side of the canoe. Yup, the water said we were moving forward alright. Paddled for a while more. No change. Never closer.
Weird thing was, all of a sudden, the island would grow real fast. Before I knew it, we'd be passing alongside the pines, waves foaming on the rocks, birches, and dead fall lining the shore. However, no bears or wolves. Oh well, it was better than seeing nothing but lake as we pulled our way along. Next minute we were back to nothing but water and another green dot afloat where the blue above met the blue below.
What felt like a thousand miles and three days later, Emil said it was closer to five miles and something over an hour, we began to circle an island. Seemed like this was the end of the road for the day and we were looking for a spot to land the canoe (or the old man was messing with me). You'd think it was easy, that we could have pulled in anywhere but it turned out islands don't like visitors. The shoreline barrier of brush and sharp stone seemed to tell us to look elsewhere.
Finally, "Pull your paddle and duck while I slide her in. Don't want you to lose an eye and mess up our fishing. I'll take it from here. Ramming speed!"
Uncle Emil whooped it up and paddled like a demon straight at brush brush crowned slab. Then, just before we grounded, he turned us ninety degrees to the left as though the canoe was bolted down directly under my butt and we were pivoting.
"Just love to do that. Sit tight while I step out."
A wobble or two and the stern bobbed up. My turn next. Once ashore my job was to hold the canoe while Emil unloaded.
"Let's go exploring and find ourselves a kitchen and bedroom."
Not sure what he meant by that. There was no house that I could see. We each grabbed a pack and headed uphill with Emil leading the way. Just like we were explorers.
One thing was for sure, this was no tropical, desert island. Not a palm tree in sight. Didn't look like anybody named Friday was going to show up to make us shrunken head soup for dinner either. The thicket of brush I was ducking and easing my through was sprouting from a half a city block-sized, jagged and cracked, chunk of rock. A couple of dozen, half starved jack pines and a few clusters of birch trees none stretching more than thirty feet skyward, shared this rock with the brush. All was ragged as though it was still in the process of becoming something else. I guess paradise is in the eye of the beholder. And this little ragged chunk did look something like the ones I'd conjured up while reading "Field and Stream." Only this one was real.
Every so often the canoe would feel like it was going forward but sliding sideways at the same time. Finally, almost as much to pass the time as get advice, I asked what was going on.
"Archie me lad, that's just me straightening us out. Way back when, I learned how to paddle from an old timer, Noah by name. 'Course his boat was way bigger and didn't smell too good. Told me to always grab the small end, then showed me how to turn the paddle into a rudder at the end of the stroke. A stroke with a twist at the end. Don't know if it has a name. Neither did he. But she works and the secret's in the thumb at the top of the paddle. Starts out pointing to the side. Ends up turning and pointing down to the gunwale. Keeps us on course and moving forward at the same time. Efficient you might say. Outside of the pain in my upper arm that is. By the by, don't forget to feather your paddle."
Off to my left was a distant shore. Not like it was way off on the horizon but if I had my bike with me, and if there was a bridge - guess if I can conjure up a bike why not throw in a bridge for good measure? What the heck, throw in one of the big twenty-five ounce bottles of coke chilled in ice water while I'm at it - I figured it would take no more than eight or ten minutes to peddle over. Guess peddling is faster than paddling (careful Archie me lad or you'll turn into Uncle Emil). On the upside, the right shore wasn't but five minutes away.
One thing was for darn sure, traveling in a canoe has little effect on the size of distant islands. I'd paddle for a while, look up, and there, a spot on the horizon, floated a tiny clump of trees. Ten minutes later, same island, same spot, same size. Then I'd look over the side of the canoe. Yup, the water said we were moving forward alright. Paddled for a while more. No change. Never closer.
Weird thing was, all of a sudden, the island would grow real fast. Before I knew it, we'd be passing alongside the pines, waves foaming on the rocks, birches, and dead fall lining the shore. However, no bears or wolves. Oh well, it was better than seeing nothing but lake as we pulled our way along. Next minute we were back to nothing but water and another green dot afloat where the blue above met the blue below.
What felt like a thousand miles and three days later, Emil said it was closer to five miles and something over an hour, we began to circle an island. Seemed like this was the end of the road for the day and we were looking for a spot to land the canoe (or the old man was messing with me). You'd think it was easy, that we could have pulled in anywhere but it turned out islands don't like visitors. The shoreline barrier of brush and sharp stone seemed to tell us to look elsewhere.
Finally, "Pull your paddle and duck while I slide her in. Don't want you to lose an eye and mess up our fishing. I'll take it from here. Ramming speed!"
Uncle Emil whooped it up and paddled like a demon straight at brush brush crowned slab. Then, just before we grounded, he turned us ninety degrees to the left as though the canoe was bolted down directly under my butt and we were pivoting.
"Just love to do that. Sit tight while I step out."
A wobble or two and the stern bobbed up. My turn next. Once ashore my job was to hold the canoe while Emil unloaded.
"Let's go exploring and find ourselves a kitchen and bedroom."
Not sure what he meant by that. There was no house that I could see. We each grabbed a pack and headed uphill with Emil leading the way. Just like we were explorers.
One thing was for sure, this was no tropical, desert island. Not a palm tree in sight. Didn't look like anybody named Friday was going to show up to make us shrunken head soup for dinner either. The thicket of brush I was ducking and easing my through was sprouting from a half a city block-sized, jagged and cracked, chunk of rock. A couple of dozen, half starved jack pines and a few clusters of birch trees none stretching more than thirty feet skyward, shared this rock with the brush. All was ragged as though it was still in the process of becoming something else. I guess paradise is in the eye of the beholder. And this little ragged chunk did look something like the ones I'd conjured up while reading "Field and Stream." Only this one was real.
Thursday, February 6, 2014
Canada XXII - New World
As we paddled off I gave a single backward glance toward the lodge. From that moment all that mattered was where we were and what waited ahead. Another of those life lessons. And I was in the catbird seat upfront. New world. Every paddle stroke pried open a bit more of our future. Yeah, it appeared to be nothing more than trees, rocks, water and sky, with a loon or gull thrown in now and then, with an old man in the back moving us in the right direction. But it was all fresh to me. Every foot of it. New bays, points, boulders we skimmed over in shallow, rippled water the color of finest jade.
Occasionally it struck me we might be passing over the best fishing of my life. Maybe in the whole world. And we weren't doing anything about it. When I brought it up Uncle Emil simply said, "Nope, Archie me lad, the best fishin's up ahead. Always was, always will be. But from what I've learned, it's out there alright and we're closin in on it with each dip of the blade."
Right from the get-go Emil gave me a lesson in paddling in the bow, "You're the engine and I'm the rudder. And since I've got the rudder I'm the boss. What I say goes and I won't steer you wrong. A little zig-zaggy maybe, but not wrong."
"Most people think paddling's easy 'til they give it a try. That's 'cause they don't do it right. First off, one hand grips the top of the paddle, the other just above the blade. Lean a little into the stroke, dip her straight down, all of the blade in and pull her back as vertical as you can. A little water on the knuckles never hurt anyone. Don't need a long stroke, just need to feel you're moving the water, not the other way around. When you get tired, switch to the other side and don't worry about where we're heading unless I say you should. Most of all enjoy the view."
A few minutes later he added, "Archie me lad, when you bring your paddle forward give your wrist a roll and turn the blade flat to the water so it doesn't catch too much wind. That's called feathering the paddle. Doesn't seem like it'd make much difference but over the miles it does. When you're doing something thousands of time it doesn't take much to make a big difference."
Slowly the green of the channel water began to darken as we entered Second Cranberry and the lake bottom began to drop away. Wow! I stopped paddling, straightened up and stared down the seven miles of water, hills and island. All of it spread under stark white popcorn clouds sailing in a deep blue sky. I'd never seen anything like it. Then it dawned on me.
"Uncle Emil, are we gonna paddle down this whole lake?"
"Yup. But not all of it today. Just half way. We'll set up camp on an island, eat us some steaks and fried potatoes, then go see if there's any lake trout we can fool."
Tuesday, February 4, 2014
Canada XXI - The Canoe
Uncle Emil's ten horse Johnson moved us right along. Not like the big engines of today but still we crossed the four mile lake in under twenty minutes. From my perch up front this was a thrill. For the first time since he picked me up at the station we were on the water, Canadian water. Holy crap, we were five hundred miles north of what I thought of as up north.
I began to dream of big fish. I mean truly huge fish. Nothing at all like the sunnies and bullheads of the Cities. And then there was the blue of the water beneath, the froth of the boat's wake fading to our rear and the islands we were soon passing. Damn, this was like something out of an outdoor magazine. The sun above sun and its reflection from the thousand little waves we kachunk-kachunked our way over had me squinty-eyed. I couldn't resist. Down went my cupped hand into the spray of the wake. First I washed my eyes then drank from First Cranberry. Emil smiled and gave me a thumbs up.
I pointed to the rocky outcrops of the first island we passed and yelled to Emil, "Does it have a name?" Emil bellowed back over the motor's whiny rumble, "Probably does! Your guess is as good as mine as to what it might be!" Just like me he had an apple pie eating grin on his face. I was thrilled to be where I was. Emil seemed to feed off my joy. And was happy being in a place he loved. The world wasn't passing by as we puttered along, we were surrounded by it. Could see, smell and taste it. And from a new angle every minute.
Not sure when it happened but Emil now had a pipe in his mouth instead of a cigarette. "It's what I do when up here. Kind of a tribute to the Voyageurs of a coupla centuries ago. When in Rome…. I also like the pipe because of the loose tobacco it needs. The Cree use tobacco to show thanks to the land, water, sky and woods around them. Don't know if they're right and don't know if they're wrong. But I do know it's the right thing to always be thankful for a gift. And being up here, doing what we're doing, is a gift. Leaving a pinch without paper at our camp sites feels right to me."
First Cranberry was the biggest lake I'd ever been on. Emil said it was good sized but in the general scheme of things up in the northland it was nothing out of the ordinary. But for me it was a sea. A sea with no outlet. Uncle Emil said we were heading toward a channel into the next lake called Second Cranberry, an even bigger lake. All I could see up ahead was shore, rock and trees and the slap of waves, no outlet anywhere. Sure hoped he knew what he was doing.
A few minutes from my first tingle of wilderness we hung a left into what had moments before been a wall of forest. There, off to our left spread a lodge in a large clearing surrounded by birch and pines. The Canadian flag flapped high above on a wooden pole, surrounded at the base by a little white rock bordered flower garden. Boats, cabins, sand beach, docks and a small, clipped lawn. Order in the boonies. Plus a few Canadian style, good old boys clustered at the end of a pier with their mitts wrapped around brown beer bottles. Looked like a convention of plaid shirted salesmen with time on their hands.
Emil slipped up alongside them with a jaunty "good afternoon gentlemen." Hopped out and secured the Lund. "Might any of you know the whereabouts of Blair?"
"He's up to da office, eh? Good seein' you Emil. How's life down in da States and who might dat young man be? You finally bringin' someone along who'll show you da right way to wet a line, eh?"
That led to five minutes of handshakes and short stories. Seemed even old guys acted like kids when there were no ladies around.
"Grab yourself a LaBatt's outta da cooler on da way up. Might even be a coke in dere for the lad."
All the while I had a smile on my face, said my name when introduced and even shook hands. The old guys were kidding with me but there was something about them that said, 'there stands the next generation.' And figured if the kid's with Emil, he's more than welcome.
The lodge wasn't what you'd call a grand affair. A row of small clapboard cabins, a few out buildings, boats with outboards ready to go and lined up along the pole lined shore. The cabins were small, white painted, red trimmed affairs. I guessed there was little need for opulence when the guests spent most of their time on the water.
The main building was somewhat larger but still not much when compared to the pictures I'd seen of places like the lodge in Yellowstone National Park. The stone paved path leading to the front door passed through a recently mowed lawn. Inside stood wall coolers of bait and beverages. The knotty pine walls were decorated with an elk's head, stuffed geese and hawks, bear skins and a variety of other critters probably killed nearby. But what drew me were the mounted walleyes and lake trout. Monster fish with glowing eyes, mouths open and pointy little teeth. I searched all the surfaces but found not one pike. Guess Uncle Emil wasn't kidding when he said the Canadians didn't think much of jack fish.
In the office we were greeted by a lady named Della. Turned out she was Blair's wife and pretty much ran the business side of the lodge. When Blair, clad in khaki head to booted feet, came out, seems he was indisposed, it was like old home week. At least for them. Friendly people, no doubt about it.
"Gotta cabin for you should you be stayin'. Clean sheets and all."
"Not this time Blair. The young man and I are off to the bush for a week or two. No roof over us. We're pushing off soon as we can. But maybe on our way out we'll take you up on your offer. For the moment, all I'm stopping for is my canoe and the chance to see your lovely wife."
"Sorry to hear that but if the backwoods is what you're after and it looks like you've got someone with you just chompin' at the bit, then it's the canoe for you, eh."
We headed out back to a huge shed. There, in the shadows of the deepest corner, atop a pair of saw horses, perched a soft glisten of aluminum. The downturned Grumman had a year's layering of dust and a bird's nest resting beneath on a thwart. Outside of that and a few deep scratches she was a thing of graceful beauty.
Emil ducked under and pulled out three paddles. All had razor thin, red tipped blades and were of a single piece of ash varnished to a tabletop sheen that came alive when we washed them off at the channel. He handed them to me to set in the Lund for the moment. Back at the shed, Emil carefully lifted out the bird nest, popped the canoe on his shoulders and we returned to the beach.
On the way, Emil asked Blair if he could spare a small block from the ice house. No sooner said than done. Finally we pulled out my suitcase. "Shoulda done this back at the car," he said. "Guess I wasn't thinking."
Emil sorted my clothes into two stacks, staying and going. The staying pile was returned to the suitcase and left at the lodge. "Best not forget this when we come back or our goose is cooked." He then added my few things going to a green, waterproof sack already filled with what Emil figured I'd need in the bush from rain gear to long johns. Double cinched it tight and added the sack to one of the big back packs. Emil called them Duluth Packs.
Once the canoe had been doused, we settled down, coke and beer in hand for a few minutes while the boat drained. Emil stoked up his pipe and said, "Archie me lad, we're almost there."
Our rest lasted but ten minutes. I could see he was as excited as me. Just itching to go. Couldn't sit still. From the Lund Uncle Emil pulled out a ragged bath towel and sponge to wipe and dry the inside of the canoe.
"Good. Look at her for a moment. That's as clean as she'll be for a while." And he almost giggled.
He called to the dock, "Will you boys be willing to set down your beers for a minute and lend an old fart a hand?" Two minutes later the Lund was well up on shore and upturned over the Johnson and gas can.
"One more thing." Out of a pack came a pair of duck boots. "Hope these fit. Anyhow they're the size your mother told me." Though I was only fourteen I was a good sized kid, taller than Emil with feet to match. Already had an inkling of what work was like. The prospect of spending a week or more in the boonies was exciting. This was gonna be one fine time.
My new boots on, laced and wrapped at the top, pants tucked in, we finished loading the canoe while it was afloat beside the dock. Cooler under the carrying yoke, food pack in front of the cooler, clothes and gear packs to the rear, day pack under Emil's seat and Coleman stove under mine. Lastly, the bundled rod tubes and extra paddle were stowed and the whole shebang tied to the thwarts with a length of cord. All was between the two seats.
Before pushing off Emil returned to the lodge. Moments later, when he returned, there was a new glass eye in place. This one with a canoe for a pupil. I didn't notice it right off but a clearing of throat and a finger point from Uncle Emil got my attention.
Emil handed me a paddle. "This was Lena's. Made it myself. She never actually used it, guess it was too long but I made it for her just in case she ever decided to see what it was like to crap in the woods." Blond wood with tip painted red and ashine with many coats of spar varnish.
"Try this on for size."
The green life jacket he handed me seemed to fit okay but what did I know? A minute of Emil tugging, tightening and tying had it fitting snugly.
"Can you breathe okay? Don't want you suffocating just 'cause I'm tryin to keep you alive. Archie me lad when you're in a canoe with me, you always wear your life jacket. No ifs, ands, or buts. Simple as that. The boys up here razz me a bit but I don't much care. Giving me grief is what they're supposed to do. Me, I'm supposed to float head up if I ever fall out of a canoe. Okay?"
Turning toward the Grumman Emil pulled the gunwale tight to the grayed dock and told me to hop in. "Three points of contact always. Two hands on the gunwales, then step into the middle, one foot at a time. Simple as pie."
Moments later we were afloat. "See you gentlemen next year if not sooner."
A wave and we were gone.
I began to dream of big fish. I mean truly huge fish. Nothing at all like the sunnies and bullheads of the Cities. And then there was the blue of the water beneath, the froth of the boat's wake fading to our rear and the islands we were soon passing. Damn, this was like something out of an outdoor magazine. The sun above sun and its reflection from the thousand little waves we kachunk-kachunked our way over had me squinty-eyed. I couldn't resist. Down went my cupped hand into the spray of the wake. First I washed my eyes then drank from First Cranberry. Emil smiled and gave me a thumbs up.
I pointed to the rocky outcrops of the first island we passed and yelled to Emil, "Does it have a name?" Emil bellowed back over the motor's whiny rumble, "Probably does! Your guess is as good as mine as to what it might be!" Just like me he had an apple pie eating grin on his face. I was thrilled to be where I was. Emil seemed to feed off my joy. And was happy being in a place he loved. The world wasn't passing by as we puttered along, we were surrounded by it. Could see, smell and taste it. And from a new angle every minute.
Not sure when it happened but Emil now had a pipe in his mouth instead of a cigarette. "It's what I do when up here. Kind of a tribute to the Voyageurs of a coupla centuries ago. When in Rome…. I also like the pipe because of the loose tobacco it needs. The Cree use tobacco to show thanks to the land, water, sky and woods around them. Don't know if they're right and don't know if they're wrong. But I do know it's the right thing to always be thankful for a gift. And being up here, doing what we're doing, is a gift. Leaving a pinch without paper at our camp sites feels right to me."
First Cranberry was the biggest lake I'd ever been on. Emil said it was good sized but in the general scheme of things up in the northland it was nothing out of the ordinary. But for me it was a sea. A sea with no outlet. Uncle Emil said we were heading toward a channel into the next lake called Second Cranberry, an even bigger lake. All I could see up ahead was shore, rock and trees and the slap of waves, no outlet anywhere. Sure hoped he knew what he was doing.
A few minutes from my first tingle of wilderness we hung a left into what had moments before been a wall of forest. There, off to our left spread a lodge in a large clearing surrounded by birch and pines. The Canadian flag flapped high above on a wooden pole, surrounded at the base by a little white rock bordered flower garden. Boats, cabins, sand beach, docks and a small, clipped lawn. Order in the boonies. Plus a few Canadian style, good old boys clustered at the end of a pier with their mitts wrapped around brown beer bottles. Looked like a convention of plaid shirted salesmen with time on their hands.
Emil slipped up alongside them with a jaunty "good afternoon gentlemen." Hopped out and secured the Lund. "Might any of you know the whereabouts of Blair?"
"He's up to da office, eh? Good seein' you Emil. How's life down in da States and who might dat young man be? You finally bringin' someone along who'll show you da right way to wet a line, eh?"
That led to five minutes of handshakes and short stories. Seemed even old guys acted like kids when there were no ladies around.
"Grab yourself a LaBatt's outta da cooler on da way up. Might even be a coke in dere for the lad."
All the while I had a smile on my face, said my name when introduced and even shook hands. The old guys were kidding with me but there was something about them that said, 'there stands the next generation.' And figured if the kid's with Emil, he's more than welcome.
The lodge wasn't what you'd call a grand affair. A row of small clapboard cabins, a few out buildings, boats with outboards ready to go and lined up along the pole lined shore. The cabins were small, white painted, red trimmed affairs. I guessed there was little need for opulence when the guests spent most of their time on the water.
The main building was somewhat larger but still not much when compared to the pictures I'd seen of places like the lodge in Yellowstone National Park. The stone paved path leading to the front door passed through a recently mowed lawn. Inside stood wall coolers of bait and beverages. The knotty pine walls were decorated with an elk's head, stuffed geese and hawks, bear skins and a variety of other critters probably killed nearby. But what drew me were the mounted walleyes and lake trout. Monster fish with glowing eyes, mouths open and pointy little teeth. I searched all the surfaces but found not one pike. Guess Uncle Emil wasn't kidding when he said the Canadians didn't think much of jack fish.
In the office we were greeted by a lady named Della. Turned out she was Blair's wife and pretty much ran the business side of the lodge. When Blair, clad in khaki head to booted feet, came out, seems he was indisposed, it was like old home week. At least for them. Friendly people, no doubt about it.
"Gotta cabin for you should you be stayin'. Clean sheets and all."
"Not this time Blair. The young man and I are off to the bush for a week or two. No roof over us. We're pushing off soon as we can. But maybe on our way out we'll take you up on your offer. For the moment, all I'm stopping for is my canoe and the chance to see your lovely wife."
"Sorry to hear that but if the backwoods is what you're after and it looks like you've got someone with you just chompin' at the bit, then it's the canoe for you, eh."
We headed out back to a huge shed. There, in the shadows of the deepest corner, atop a pair of saw horses, perched a soft glisten of aluminum. The downturned Grumman had a year's layering of dust and a bird's nest resting beneath on a thwart. Outside of that and a few deep scratches she was a thing of graceful beauty.
Emil ducked under and pulled out three paddles. All had razor thin, red tipped blades and were of a single piece of ash varnished to a tabletop sheen that came alive when we washed them off at the channel. He handed them to me to set in the Lund for the moment. Back at the shed, Emil carefully lifted out the bird nest, popped the canoe on his shoulders and we returned to the beach.
On the way, Emil asked Blair if he could spare a small block from the ice house. No sooner said than done. Finally we pulled out my suitcase. "Shoulda done this back at the car," he said. "Guess I wasn't thinking."
Emil sorted my clothes into two stacks, staying and going. The staying pile was returned to the suitcase and left at the lodge. "Best not forget this when we come back or our goose is cooked." He then added my few things going to a green, waterproof sack already filled with what Emil figured I'd need in the bush from rain gear to long johns. Double cinched it tight and added the sack to one of the big back packs. Emil called them Duluth Packs.
Once the canoe had been doused, we settled down, coke and beer in hand for a few minutes while the boat drained. Emil stoked up his pipe and said, "Archie me lad, we're almost there."
Our rest lasted but ten minutes. I could see he was as excited as me. Just itching to go. Couldn't sit still. From the Lund Uncle Emil pulled out a ragged bath towel and sponge to wipe and dry the inside of the canoe.
"Good. Look at her for a moment. That's as clean as she'll be for a while." And he almost giggled.
He called to the dock, "Will you boys be willing to set down your beers for a minute and lend an old fart a hand?" Two minutes later the Lund was well up on shore and upturned over the Johnson and gas can.
"One more thing." Out of a pack came a pair of duck boots. "Hope these fit. Anyhow they're the size your mother told me." Though I was only fourteen I was a good sized kid, taller than Emil with feet to match. Already had an inkling of what work was like. The prospect of spending a week or more in the boonies was exciting. This was gonna be one fine time.
My new boots on, laced and wrapped at the top, pants tucked in, we finished loading the canoe while it was afloat beside the dock. Cooler under the carrying yoke, food pack in front of the cooler, clothes and gear packs to the rear, day pack under Emil's seat and Coleman stove under mine. Lastly, the bundled rod tubes and extra paddle were stowed and the whole shebang tied to the thwarts with a length of cord. All was between the two seats.
Before pushing off Emil returned to the lodge. Moments later, when he returned, there was a new glass eye in place. This one with a canoe for a pupil. I didn't notice it right off but a clearing of throat and a finger point from Uncle Emil got my attention.
Emil handed me a paddle. "This was Lena's. Made it myself. She never actually used it, guess it was too long but I made it for her just in case she ever decided to see what it was like to crap in the woods." Blond wood with tip painted red and ashine with many coats of spar varnish.
"Try this on for size."
The green life jacket he handed me seemed to fit okay but what did I know? A minute of Emil tugging, tightening and tying had it fitting snugly.
"Can you breathe okay? Don't want you suffocating just 'cause I'm tryin to keep you alive. Archie me lad when you're in a canoe with me, you always wear your life jacket. No ifs, ands, or buts. Simple as that. The boys up here razz me a bit but I don't much care. Giving me grief is what they're supposed to do. Me, I'm supposed to float head up if I ever fall out of a canoe. Okay?"
Turning toward the Grumman Emil pulled the gunwale tight to the grayed dock and told me to hop in. "Three points of contact always. Two hands on the gunwales, then step into the middle, one foot at a time. Simple as pie."
Moments later we were afloat. "See you gentlemen next year if not sooner."
A wave and we were gone.
Saturday, February 1, 2014
Canada XX - The Dock
The hour's drive to Cranberry Portage began with a repeat of the scenery we'd passed on the way into The Pas, sand and gravel in the ditch, swamp and forest beyond. Then midway it changed. Of course I was too dense to notice 'til Uncle Emil pointed them out. Rock. Small cliffs of it. One with someone's name painted on the side.
"Probably some high school graduate trying to let the world know how great it is to be them. Up here it's like yelling in the dark when there's no one around to hear. Lately the big thing down in the States is to paint the name of your high school on the local water tower."
Minutes passed in silence. The way Emil's eyes were moving back and forth, fingers waggling, I knew something was in the wind. Finally, the Zippo and lighter appeared. It was time for me to listen up.
"A couple of years ago over on the other side of Wisconsin I heard this joke. I'd been fishing the rivers with a couple of buddies and we'd stopped in at a place called Furlong's for a couple of beers. They had Point beer on tap. Don't get that here in Minnesota and I figured to give one a try. One sip spoke loudly of its lack of popularity. While sitting there a stub of a man strolled up. The foot and a half stalk of pink gladiolus pinned to the strap of his bib overalls told us he was a splash of local color. Anyhow, after a moment of pleasantries he went on to relate a story of an Irishman who'd had too much to drink. Not much of a joke as jokes go but a kernel of it stuck with me. Ate at my craw 'til I learned the truth behind it. Yeah, even the wildest tales are usually inspired by true events."
"Seems there was this fighter back in the thirties by the name of Kid Glove. That wasn't his real name of course. Just the one he fought under. And not much of a name as names go but he had a pretty good punch considering. Now the Kid lived up on the Iron Range in northern Minnesota. When he wasn't working the mines he was a pro boxer. A bantam rooster kind of guy. Feisty. Wasn't a great fighter but wasn't all that bad either. Won a few more fights than he lost and was always entertaining. When the Kid fought, someone was gonna bleed. Usually him. Nose looked like it was coming up on a T in the road, hit a bump then couldn't make up its mind whether to turn left or right."
"Anyhow, the Kid had a problem with the bottle, would now and then do something off-the-wall stupid when he'd had a few too many. This was back during the Depression. Times were tough and a buck went a long way. Twenty, twenty-five dollars was about all a middle of the road fighter could expect for a bout. You have to understand I didn't see this. Heard it second hand from a very reliable source."
"Was a thursday night in Chisholm. Log Cabin Bar. One drink as usual led to another, the Kid needed a little cash, so he bet a fellow miner in the bar five dollars he could do a one arm handstand on the town's watertower. Didn't take but a second for a handshake and the whole bar to empty and set off down the street. Legend in the making."
"Crowd built to the hundreds as they milled uptown and word spread bar to bar. The Kid was feeling no pain and havin' a fine time. Started shadow boxing his way up the street. Even went into his car to retrieve the moccasins he wore for road training. Yeah the kid was readier than ready. Jumping up and down, wagging his head back and forth to loosen up. Scampered his way up the tower's ladder like he was escaping the eternal pit after the thread of last hope had snapped. Also had a hip flask peeking from the butt pocket of his dungarees. Not a good idea. Once atop the Kid downed it in a single adam's apple bobbing swig and flung it aside. Then commenced to giving what may have been a fine speech had anyone been able to understand a word he slurred out. Yeah, could've been the flask he stumbled on. Whatever the reason the Kid did a half gainer in the pike position over the railing and smacked sideways onto the pavement below with a 'what the hell was that ?' look on his face. Shook his head and popped up like nothing had happened though his left leg was all catty-whampus, twisted backwards. The good old boys gathered 'round, patted the Kid on the back, told him what a great man he was. Then they all headed back to the bar for a nightcap. It was there back at the Log Cabin they discovered the Kid wasn't with them. Seems he was still back at the base of the tower walking in counter-clockwise circles 'cause of the one leg being backwards. Had him grip an oak tree while a couple of his buddies twisted the bent one back. The Kid never let out a peep."
"Wasn't 'til the following afternoon out at the mine that the Kid finally collapsed. Deader than a door nail. Autopsy said he'd been dead for better than a half day. Also said his blood came out pink when they drained it. Seems it'd been significantly thinned by cheap whiskey. Verdict was the Kid was so drunk when he hit the asphalt he didn't know he was dead 'til the next day when he sobered up. And as far as I know that's the Gospel truth. Has to be. Even I don't make up tales as strange as that."
We never did make it all the way to downtown Cranberry Portage. Two blocks into town we hung a right and headed down to the lake. There we found weren't alone. A few cars in the gravel lot, all with boat trailers. A party of four headed to the cleaning house from a boat still raining lake water. The dock itself was a concrete affair big enough to moor a dozen boats. Before putting in, Emil had us load our gear in the Lund. Didn't seem like we had all that much stuff but the Lund was filled to the gills.
Emil made it look like child's play the way he worked the boat from the trailer and secured it to the huge dock. Started by pulling on a dull green pair of rubber duck boots, then backed the boat and trailer into the lake 'til the Nomad's exhaust pipes were all but covered. Once there he un-cranked and slid the boat free of the trailer. A hop and scamper aboard, a couple of pulls on the outboard and Emil backed out in the bay. Once in the chop he gave the Johnson a few blue smoked revs, slid up to the concrete pier and tied her fore and aft. Five minutes later, the Nomad and trailer parked, we found ourselves standing on the dock, Emil with a lit Lucky hanging from his lip.
From what I could see the lake looked not much bigger than a pond. This was Canada? "Archie me lad, this isn't the lake. Just a bay. Beyond is First Cranberry and it's a good sized body of water. Back home she'd be called a big lake and be known throughout the state. Up here she's not but a spit in a fryin' pan but even so, you don't ever want to fall overboard. The pike'll eat you alive. A word to the wise, don't call them pike to the locals. They won't have a clooo - thats how he pronounced it - what you're talkin' abowoot, eh. Call them jackfish. And walleyes are pickerel. Got that? Oh yeah, throw in an 'eh' at the end of every sentence and they'll think you're a native. Ready? Let's get to it. Adventure calls."
"Probably some high school graduate trying to let the world know how great it is to be them. Up here it's like yelling in the dark when there's no one around to hear. Lately the big thing down in the States is to paint the name of your high school on the local water tower."
Minutes passed in silence. The way Emil's eyes were moving back and forth, fingers waggling, I knew something was in the wind. Finally, the Zippo and lighter appeared. It was time for me to listen up.
"A couple of years ago over on the other side of Wisconsin I heard this joke. I'd been fishing the rivers with a couple of buddies and we'd stopped in at a place called Furlong's for a couple of beers. They had Point beer on tap. Don't get that here in Minnesota and I figured to give one a try. One sip spoke loudly of its lack of popularity. While sitting there a stub of a man strolled up. The foot and a half stalk of pink gladiolus pinned to the strap of his bib overalls told us he was a splash of local color. Anyhow, after a moment of pleasantries he went on to relate a story of an Irishman who'd had too much to drink. Not much of a joke as jokes go but a kernel of it stuck with me. Ate at my craw 'til I learned the truth behind it. Yeah, even the wildest tales are usually inspired by true events."
"Seems there was this fighter back in the thirties by the name of Kid Glove. That wasn't his real name of course. Just the one he fought under. And not much of a name as names go but he had a pretty good punch considering. Now the Kid lived up on the Iron Range in northern Minnesota. When he wasn't working the mines he was a pro boxer. A bantam rooster kind of guy. Feisty. Wasn't a great fighter but wasn't all that bad either. Won a few more fights than he lost and was always entertaining. When the Kid fought, someone was gonna bleed. Usually him. Nose looked like it was coming up on a T in the road, hit a bump then couldn't make up its mind whether to turn left or right."
"Anyhow, the Kid had a problem with the bottle, would now and then do something off-the-wall stupid when he'd had a few too many. This was back during the Depression. Times were tough and a buck went a long way. Twenty, twenty-five dollars was about all a middle of the road fighter could expect for a bout. You have to understand I didn't see this. Heard it second hand from a very reliable source."
"Was a thursday night in Chisholm. Log Cabin Bar. One drink as usual led to another, the Kid needed a little cash, so he bet a fellow miner in the bar five dollars he could do a one arm handstand on the town's watertower. Didn't take but a second for a handshake and the whole bar to empty and set off down the street. Legend in the making."
"Crowd built to the hundreds as they milled uptown and word spread bar to bar. The Kid was feeling no pain and havin' a fine time. Started shadow boxing his way up the street. Even went into his car to retrieve the moccasins he wore for road training. Yeah the kid was readier than ready. Jumping up and down, wagging his head back and forth to loosen up. Scampered his way up the tower's ladder like he was escaping the eternal pit after the thread of last hope had snapped. Also had a hip flask peeking from the butt pocket of his dungarees. Not a good idea. Once atop the Kid downed it in a single adam's apple bobbing swig and flung it aside. Then commenced to giving what may have been a fine speech had anyone been able to understand a word he slurred out. Yeah, could've been the flask he stumbled on. Whatever the reason the Kid did a half gainer in the pike position over the railing and smacked sideways onto the pavement below with a 'what the hell was that ?' look on his face. Shook his head and popped up like nothing had happened though his left leg was all catty-whampus, twisted backwards. The good old boys gathered 'round, patted the Kid on the back, told him what a great man he was. Then they all headed back to the bar for a nightcap. It was there back at the Log Cabin they discovered the Kid wasn't with them. Seems he was still back at the base of the tower walking in counter-clockwise circles 'cause of the one leg being backwards. Had him grip an oak tree while a couple of his buddies twisted the bent one back. The Kid never let out a peep."
"Wasn't 'til the following afternoon out at the mine that the Kid finally collapsed. Deader than a door nail. Autopsy said he'd been dead for better than a half day. Also said his blood came out pink when they drained it. Seems it'd been significantly thinned by cheap whiskey. Verdict was the Kid was so drunk when he hit the asphalt he didn't know he was dead 'til the next day when he sobered up. And as far as I know that's the Gospel truth. Has to be. Even I don't make up tales as strange as that."
We never did make it all the way to downtown Cranberry Portage. Two blocks into town we hung a right and headed down to the lake. There we found weren't alone. A few cars in the gravel lot, all with boat trailers. A party of four headed to the cleaning house from a boat still raining lake water. The dock itself was a concrete affair big enough to moor a dozen boats. Before putting in, Emil had us load our gear in the Lund. Didn't seem like we had all that much stuff but the Lund was filled to the gills.
Emil made it look like child's play the way he worked the boat from the trailer and secured it to the huge dock. Started by pulling on a dull green pair of rubber duck boots, then backed the boat and trailer into the lake 'til the Nomad's exhaust pipes were all but covered. Once there he un-cranked and slid the boat free of the trailer. A hop and scamper aboard, a couple of pulls on the outboard and Emil backed out in the bay. Once in the chop he gave the Johnson a few blue smoked revs, slid up to the concrete pier and tied her fore and aft. Five minutes later, the Nomad and trailer parked, we found ourselves standing on the dock, Emil with a lit Lucky hanging from his lip.
From what I could see the lake looked not much bigger than a pond. This was Canada? "Archie me lad, this isn't the lake. Just a bay. Beyond is First Cranberry and it's a good sized body of water. Back home she'd be called a big lake and be known throughout the state. Up here she's not but a spit in a fryin' pan but even so, you don't ever want to fall overboard. The pike'll eat you alive. A word to the wise, don't call them pike to the locals. They won't have a clooo - thats how he pronounced it - what you're talkin' abowoot, eh. Call them jackfish. And walleyes are pickerel. Got that? Oh yeah, throw in an 'eh' at the end of every sentence and they'll think you're a native. Ready? Let's get to it. Adventure calls."
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