There’s more than fish to a fishing trip ~ May 21, 1992

David Heiller

We might even catch some fish. Last week’s column ended on that spurt of optimism, and it came true, except for Dave.

Dave Landwehr waiting for a lunker...
or a snag.

There comes a time every year, when we go canoeing up north, that Dave does his “Pretend I’ve Got A Lunker” trick. That’s when his lure gets snagged on a stick or rock, and instead of carefully working it off, he strains and jerks and bends the tip of his rod like he’s Babe Winkleman bringing in an eight pound lake trout.

That’s what he was doing on Saturday afternoon, when Paul and I paddled up. There he sat, making faces, groaning against the rod, snagged solid. It was kind of funny. We smiled like you smile at an old story that you’ve heard a few times.

Then suddenly Dave crashed back into his seat, and held up his rod and started swearing. The top section had broken clean in two. Now THAT was funny. We smiled, we laughed, we roared. It was an Oscar-winning performance, unfortunately better than even Dave had expected.

I figure that Dave tempted the fates one too many times, like the boy that cried fish. He never did catch one. But at least he can brag about the one that got away: it was so big that it broke his rod.

The rest of us did catch some fish, nothing to brag about, but enough for supper every night except the first night, when Dave made spaghetti with ground venison sauce which was so good we forgot about fish anyway.

The other three nights we sat around the camp fire full of boiled lake trout, wild rice, noodles, and potatoes. That’s a fine way to end a day in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area.

You can’t ask for any more than that, but you get it anyway. You always catch more than fish in the Boundary Waters.

Like when Dave and Paul saw a ruffed grouse drumming as they took trips to the biffy one morning. Or an otter in Cherokee Creek on Sunday, coming out. Or naps, sweet, long naps in the sun, no phones ringing, no power saws buzzing, not even any mosquitoes buzzing.

A beautiful morning

Or on the granite slab in front of our campsite before sunrise on Friday morning, reading Sigurd Olson and listening to the birds of the north, their songs fresh and new and wild like the lakes and islands of the boundary waters.

The lake was dark and silent, save for a rim of rose at the shoreline. The island 200 yards out front emerged from the gloom, the pine tree branches a lacey black. A loon called and another, far down the lake, answered hoarsely.

The clear sky changed as morning mists rolled in. The air became clammy and thick. The sun inched above the distant shoreline, then glowed like a spotlight above the trees, and the fog melted and crept away. That was my cue to make a fire for coffee. What a way to start a morning.

Old-timers scoff at such romantic descriptions. They remind me that this country was logged at the turn of the century. It wasn’t so pretty then. They mention the mercury in the lake trout, the USDA caution to eat no more than one fish a month. The water isn’t so pure after all. They shake their heads at how much poorer the fishing is now than it used to be in the good old days. “Before schmucks like you discovered it,” they almost say.

Let them say it. There’s enough room for everybody, as long as we treat the land and water with the respect it has coming.

A Gift in the Moonlight

Jim and I paddled into the moonlight on Friday night. First we hugged the shoreline. Patches of moss glowed eerily in the darkness. Tree roots loomed like misshapen monsters.

Jim and David on a daytime paddle.

We moved into the middle of the lake, and the moon instantly cleared the tree line and shone clear and bright. It brightened our spirits too, made us grin and talk. Talk can’t describe how bright and pretty a full moon on a quiet lake can be.

We paddled around a dark island, then came out to a shimmering path of moonlight that lead like a yellow brick road back to camp. Two loons swam through it, silhouetted for an instant against a glittering ribbon of yellow wonder. It was a vision worth a thousand words, a gift no money could buy. Even old-timers would have enjoyed it.

We followed the moon down a narrow channel, toward our camp. A beaver splashed on our left. The voices of Dave and Paul guided us home, their campfire an orange dot on the dark shore. What a beautiful, age-old sight.

Welcome home

I could go on and on, but anyone who has been to the Boundary Waters can rekindle their own memories. In fact, I feel a little foolish for this sixth annual gushing about our trip.

But one more gush: When we got to Dave’s on Sunday evening, his son Matt stood waiting by the mailbox. As we approached, he stuck his hand out like he was hitch-hiking. His eyes gleamed above a grin a mile wide. It was a look saved for only Dad, gone five whole days, from a 10-year-old boy. It’s not a look you see every day, and not a look you easily forget. A look of pure love and affection. If it’s aimed at you, you’re the luckiest person in the world. I know I am.

That’s another thing you get from a trip up north, maybe the best thing of all. It’s enough to make you forget about whether or not you catch a fish, or even break your rod.