Water from another time ~ March 2, 1989

by David Heiller


(Cynthia' note: to hear the song, click the link... it is worth your time)

link to John McCutcheon's song Water from Another Time

There’s a song I’m thinking about tonight by John McCutcheon, called Water from Another Time. It’s about grandparents, and how they pass on their knowledge and wisdom. Part of it goes:

Tattered quilt on the goose down bed

Every stitch tells a story, my grandma said

Her momma’s nightgown, Grandpa’s pants

And the dress she wore to her high school dance

Now wrapped at night in those patchwork seams,

I waltz with Grandma in my dreams

My arms, my heart, my life entwined

With water from another time

Grandma Schnick, 1984

My old bedroom is now a sickroom for Grandma. She lies in my bed, her eyes closed, mouth ajar. I have to look close to see her chest rise and fall slightly, yes, she’s breathing. I take her hand, so thin now, all knuckles and skin.

“Hi Grandma, it’s me, David.” Her hand tightens in mine, the other reaches over to join it. Her lips come together into a smile, her eyes still shut like she’s in a sweet, sweet dream.

“It’s good to see you again.” My eyes fill, a tear spills down my right cheek. Mom moves to Grandma’s side, a water glass and spoon in hand. “Would you like some water, Mom?” she asks. The voice jars me—I haven’t heard it in maybe 25 years, but it’s a voice you never forget, a mother’s voice caring for her sick child.

Grandma’s smile has gone. “Noah and Mollie didn’t come with us.” I want to say why, but I can’t. How many times did Noah sleep with Grandma, waking her in the early morning by growling under the covers like a tiger? How many times did he spread her toys on the floor upstairs and chatter away? He wouldn’t understand this new Grandma. Grandma understands.

Stella Schnick, as a young 
woman, on the family farm in 
North Dakota. (I wish that I 
could see the auburn hair!)

“Mollie lost a tooth. She got an abscess, so her top front teeth have a big gap now.” Grandma shakes her head slowly, her eyebrows lowered, a worried look and shake so familiar to a grandson who has lost teeth of his own, only now the look and shake are slow motion, a shadow of the old Grandma.

Mom comes into the room again. “Does your leg hurt you?” There’s pain in her voice. Grandma nods her head, coughs. She looks calmer somehow, with Mom there, like she knows her daughter will take care of her. Seventy years ago it was a look Mom might have given Grandma, a look of trust peering through sickness.

Sitting up with Grandma Saturday night, I tell her, “I should have brought my banjo.” Grandma nods. She was always my most faith­ful audience back when a banjo never left my side. I hum anyway, hymns, Rock of Ages, Old Rugged Cross, Beautiful Savior, Just As I Am. Grandma’s arms reach out, like she’s trying to grab hold of something. “Should I stop singing?” She shakes her head.

After she falls asleep, I stroke her gray hair, imagining it’s auburn color from a lock she showed me once. My mind adds youth and flesh and color to her face, and I wonder if Grandpa ever sat next to Grandma at night and stroked her hair and gazed at her sleeping beauty.

Sunday noon, time to leave. I didn’t think three weeks ago I would be saying goodbye again. But this time is different. A woman who gave so much, Grandma is helpless now, and I am helpless too, because the one thing Grandma wants, I cannot give, no one can give.

“We’re going now.” Her hand tightens on mine, a hard grasp that doesn’t seem possible from an arm that’s all bone. Her eyes open, turn in my direction. “David, David,” she whispers. “Don’t go.” I hold her hand until her eyes shut again.

You don’t take much, but you got to have some.

The old ways help the new ways come.

Just leave a little extra for the next in line,

Going to need a little water from another time.

Noah beats all ~ March 1, 1984

David Heiller

The flu knocked me out for most of last week. I missed three days of work, as I sat delirious and fevered in the big chair by the woodstove at home.

Cindy, my wife, gave the flu to me (not intentionally—no one hates me that much). We suffered together, while Noah had his run of the house. Noah is our eight and a half month old son.

Noah setting Binti straight.

Ask Binti, our 70 pound dog, about Noah’s supremacy. She’ll swallow and try to crawl under the woodstove. Noah wrestled Binti into a black mop last week, while Cindy and I watched helplessly, calling encouragement to the faithful dog from our perches on the furniture.

Noah rolled on Binti, climbed on Binti, rode Binti, and hung onto Binti’s ears as if they were reins. Binti grunted, groaned, licked, and eventually struggled to her feet and went outside.

Noah had his turn at us too. He woke up in the middle of the night several nights, and cried till we brought him into bed with us. Is there anything more like heaven for an eight and a half month old? You could have sworn it was 10 in the morning by how happy Noah was to be with Mom and Dad in bed. He sat up and laughed. Turn to face him, and he played with your face like putty. Turn away from him, and your back was a giant drum, to be pounded till you rolled over and the process began anew.

David, Noah, Binti and Miss Emma. Noah is about to 
begin drumming one of those expensive toys.

Drumming, I learned last week as I suffered and watched, is Noah’s calling. He pounds everything. All those expensive Fisher-Price toys, that click and ring and cost a lot of money, are reduced to nothing more than elaborate drums. That expensive electronic scale that I bought Cindy for Valentine’s Day, it’s nothing more than a perfect drum for Noah. The highchair tray, the cat, the stereo cabinet, all are perfect drums. There is nothing our house that is drum proof, including us.

Noah may also be a wrestler, I decided last week. I first got the idea after watching him rake Binti over the coals. Then I learned the hard way, as he showed me his latest moves in diaper changing.

I wrestled in high school, so I know a bit about the sport. In fact, I was a fairly good wrestler. But despite my 160 pound advantage, Noah can beat me, when it comes changing time. 

His strongest move (actually his only move) is escaping. As I get the diaper under him, he rolls to his left, and grabs the edge of the changing table, and pulls himself upright, sitting and grinning. As I try to bulldog him back onto his back, the diaper gets twisted up. As I straighten the diaper, Noah rolls to his left and grabs the edge of the changing table. It’s a no-win situation, for me, till I move Noah onto the floor, where there is no edge grab. Then my chances are at least 50-50.

Well, maybe I was just weak from the flu last week—maybe that’s why Noah won. But I have a feeling it’s not.

Editor's note: I remember this so clearly. I was stricken with influenza first, and spent two days alone with Noah while barely functional. I have to admit it: I was relieved when David got it too, and had to stay home.

You call that a winter camping trip? ~ February 19, 1998

David Heiller

That’s what we wondered when we woke up last Monday morning on Tom’s Bay on Basswood Lake.

Tom and I lay in the tent and listened to rain fall on it. Rain falling on a tent is usually a comforting sound. But in the middle of February, it seemed out of place and a little worrisome.

After all, we had six miles to ski back to the landing, pulling heavy sleds. Neither of us wanted to do that in the rain. We had cross-country skis, not water skis.

I’m sure Noah didn’t either, although he wasn’t talking to us at the moment. He was snoring in his two sleeping bags.

Noah and Tom

Noah, my son, had worried before the trip that one of us would snore and keep him awake And now this.

But he wasn’t keeping us awake. Tom and I had woken up all by ourselves at five a.m. That isn’t early if you consider that we were asleep by 8:30 the previous night. When you go winter camping, there isn’t a lot to do after dark except lay in your sleeping bag and talk.

It was fun to have Noah along to lighten up the talk, which can get pretty ponderous between two men. It takes a teenager to bring you back to the real world, like whether the Vikings would re-sign John Randle.

I stepped out of the tent. It was still dark. The rain wasn’t falling hard. It didn’t feel like it would last. My worry lifted. What was to complain about? The temperature was above freezing. Our fishing holes hadn’t even frozen over.

Last year at this time and spot, the temperature had dipped to minus 23. I’ll take El Niño any year.

Getting some wood for the Little Puffer.

Sleeping sure was better this year. Last year I brought one sleeping bag and got darn cold. This year Noah and I had each brought two bags. We stayed plenty warm, even after Little Puffer, Tom’s woodstove, turned cold.

The fishing this year was probably the best of my life, although we didn’t catch a true lunker. Last year I caught a 17-pound northern, and so did Tom’s son, Ben. Even that isn’t a big fish to some people. Tom, for example, thinks that some day he will catch a big northern.

“How big is that,” Ι asked him on Monday morning.

“About 35 pounds,” he said with a little smile. I wouldn’t bet against him.

The fishing was thrilling. At one point on Sunday, two flags popped up on tip-ups at the same time. I took one and Noah took the other. I kept one eye on my son and one eye on my line. My fish fought hard, but I pulled him in steadily. Fourteen pound line gives you a lot of confidence.

I eased the fish into the hole. It gave a thrust and came six inches out of the hole. Ι hooked my finger under its gills and lifted it into the air.

“Look at this!” I shouted to Noah. It was a beauty, about 34 inches long and weighing about 10 pounds. He barely glanced my way: Who cares about someone else’s fish when you’ve got one on yourself? I dropped my fish and ran over to help him haul it out. It was a measly seven pounder.

Noah and Tom and a nice catch

We ended up catching our limit of three fish each. We let many go. We lost some nice ones too, fish that tugged as hard as the 17-pounder did last year. One broke a line. Another wound itself around a snag.

Noah lost a big one in a way I had never seen before. When he set the hook, he felt the fish for several seconds, then it was gone. He pulled up his line, and found a half-digested eel pout on the end of his hook.

A northern apparently had swallowed Noah’s cisco, then when he set the hook, instead of the hook catching in its throat, it dug into a fish in the northern’s stomach and came out. The eel pout saved the northern’s life.

“How big do you think that fish was, 35 pounds?” Tom asked me later, with Noah standing nearby.

Checking the weight on Noah's fish.

“No, it was probably about 17 pounds.” I can’t let my son out-fish me. But Tom might be right. That’s the thing about fishing. You never know. It keeps you going back.

The rain quit early Monday morning. We broke camp and took down the tent and started packing our sleds. We stood by a fire at the edge of the lake. Tom heated up some left over spaghetti. I cooked up two hotdogs. It’s funny how good food can taste around a campfire. We drank coffee. Noah had a cup of cocoa.

At about 11:30 we headed back. The snow was slushy. The sleds pulled hard. But it wasn’t bad enough to complain about. I didn’t even have to wear gloves. That’s how warm it was on February16 in the coldest area of the United States.

Tom stopped to point out some fresh otter tracks to Noah. He is always doing things like that. He teaches science for a living and his teaching day doesn’t end at 3 p.m. Often during the trip he would ask things like, ^“What critter made those tracks?” or “What bird call is that?” You’re always learning something from Tom.

At one point we skied four feet from the edge of a creek that was open. It was a little scary. None of us wanted to go through the ice with skis on, belted to a sled.

But having an element of risk is a big part of camping. We trusted our judgment, and with Tom leading the way, things felt safe. He really knows his way in the wilderness.

David with one of the sleds.

The hardest part out was a half-mile-long portage. It had been downhill coming in, and the skiing conditions had been perfect. But now it—was hot and slushy. We sweated and struggled up slope after slope, carrying our skis and poles, and pulling our sleds. Warm weather can work against you in the winter.

Noah’s sled snagged on a few trees. I saw him wave his arms angrily. Ι heard him yelling. I had to stifle a smile. Every good trip has a moment where you struggle physically and reach a low point. That was it for Noah, and me too.

But Tom kept a steady pace, and we gritted our teeth and followed. When we came down the hill to the end of the portage, Noah broke into a run. I smiled at that. We rested then, and ate candy and drank water. It tasted good.

That portage is one reason why Tom’s Bay is full of big fish, I thought. Not many people could make it. But we did. And it won’t be the last time, El Niño or not.

The weather could be worse ~ March 7, 1996

David Heiller

With all the cold and snow we’ve had this winter, it’s nice to know that the weather can always be worse, and it HAS been worse.

I talked to Red Hansen of Askov a few weeks ago about what was the worst winter he could remember. He answered without hesitation that it was the winter of 1949-50. That winter is still listed in the Duluth newspaper as having the most snow ever, 131.6 inches. So far this year, Duluth has received 111.5 inches as of March 4.

So with another 20.1 inches, we could break that record, although I hope we don’t. (Editor’s note: We got 135.4 inches that year. The record was broken!)

Red made these remarks about the winter of 1949-50.

“That winter we had so much snow, it would take a week to get a road cleared, then you’d no sooner get it cleared off than it would fill back in again, and it would take another week before you could get a plow in there to clear a township road out.

“The snow was much deeper, and it moved with the wind. We lived north of town 2½ miles out in the old Stovring home [across from the Harald Stottrup and Harold Jensen farms]. To get to work I had to walk. I ended up walking on snowshoes cross country.”

QUESTION: “Was that uphill both ways, Red?” Sorry, I couldn’t resist. Tell on.

“Pretty near a month on snowshoes. Sleeping in the post office at night when we couldn’t get home. The last train was 6:30 in the evening, and we sorted mail until seven. And then get the backpack on and the snowshoes on and go cross country through the woods to get home. Get home about 8 o’clock. That was a little tough going. Ι would say I was in pretty good shape when spring came.

“Same thing in the morning, we had to be in here by 8 o’clock. We’d leave home by 6:30 with a backpack on, then down through the woods, through the pine trees. But what was worse was Hedda was sitting out there with the two kids. One night Becky got pneumonia. We ended up with the county plow at midnight, plowing out there with a doctor. That time I took the family out with the snowplow. Becky had about a 104 fever. So it was a rough winter.

“When they finally got the plow in there, it kept building up and building up and building up on the sides. We ended up walking on top of the high ridge of the piled up snow, in other words over the ditch. We walked on the telephone wires. They were under the snow, under our feet. You can figure out how high the snow was.

“There was a guy named Jorgensen that had a telephone. We had to help him in the spring. He had so much damage with the snow, poles down, wires down, we all pitched in and helped to get the line back out to our place. We walked down the road and pulled the wire backwards, peeling it out of the packed up snow and ice. Then they came out and put it up on poles again.”

“Winter was a little bit different. Now we have tall trees, a lot of woods. At that time there was small, short brush, and that snow would move for miles and miles and miles and pile up. The drifting was worse.

Red and Hedda.

“The last time we got plowed out, I started walking in the morning and I got to Highway 23, and here came Arild Frederiksen with his 2½ ton Army GMC with a V-plow in front. He could make maybe 15 feet, hit the snow real hard, and there he would stop. We met him out there, and we started shoveling this opening that a vee plow could get into to break the drift loose. Otherwise he would hit it and stop. I think we started shoveling about 7 o’clock out there on the highway, and there was eight of us by the time we got to my place, and that would be 2½ miles east. By evening, by 4 or 4:30, we had gotten that far, shoveling ahead of the plow.

“That worries you, when you’ve got family sitting out like that. I was lying in the post office [one night], couldn’t get home. Telephone rang around 11:30 at night. It was Hedda. She said the oil burner had gone out. So figured it was a carburetor that was dirty. So Ι told her how to shut the oil off the big tank, where to find my tools. I the telephone was right around the corner from the stove. I told her step by step; screw by screw, how to take that carburetor apart, lay it all out on the floor and clean it, then step by step I told her how to put it back in again screw by screw. Got the whole thing put together again, opened up the big valve on the tank, opened up the valve of the stove. Ι said, ‘Now throw a match in there.’ It took hold. Ι suppose it was 1:30 before she got back to bed again.

“Problems at that time you kind of took with grain of salt. We were used to them as kids. Βυt today, it’s a different story. It doesn’t take much to make people say, ‘O.K., shut the door and stay home.’ But we didn’t. We had to get to work.

“We’re softer. We’re used to better things. At that time, so it would snow, the car didn’t go, you walked. What are you going to do today? If the car doesn’t go, you’re not going to walk. Βut those days we walked. Pat the car on the hood when you walked by it and then walked to town.

“I used to crank on that old Model A, and it wouldn’t start. It stood outside of course. I’d crank on it until I couldn’t stand to crank anymore. Then I’d pull the crank out and hit it on the hood and throw the crank in the car an. start walking. But I had to get one lick in on old Model A.

Red had one vivid winter memory from when he was a kid living 1½ miles west of Askov with his folks, where he lives now.

“Many times, 11:00, 11:30 at night, mother dad and I would be out there shoveling so we could get to work in the morning. That was kind of nice. The moon would be shining, nice crisp night. You could hear the owls, and the shadows from the moonlight on the snow. We’d go there, and shovel for an hour, not a word being said side by side. Take your time, not rush It was a feeling of companionship. You’d get down the the highway finally, O.K., then you could get to` work in the morning. I’ve thought about that many times, the three of us out there shoveling.

“Yeah, times are a little different.”

Well said, Red.

The humble act of ice fishing ~ February 21, 1991

David Heiller

There’s something about ice fishing with two kids that can put a little humility in you, and some pretty good food, too.

First of all, they’ll probably out-fish you. That’s what happened on Sunday afternoon on Fox Lake, west of Willow River. Noah had pulled a crappie onto the ice before I had even put a minnow on Mollie’s pole. It wasn’t anything to rave about, only the size of my hand.

But Noah was excited, and I couldn’t blame him. Is there anything more exciting than watching a bobber disappear down a hole in the ice? Sure, it’s probably a dinky panfish. But maybe, just maybe, it’s that five pound largemouth that you’ve dreamed about, the kind Bob Dutcher likes to tote around town every fall. Or a 20-pound northern that would look great at Stanton Lumber, next to Nick Worobel’s lunker.

Catching a fish through the ice is like opening day of baseball, where hope springs eternal in the human breast. Maybe the Twins will win it all this year...

But back to reality. After Noah pulled in that first fish, I had to instruct Mollie on what to do if HER bobber went under. Mollie has a tendency to be impatient at times, even for a five-year-old. (I could even say she was down right ornery if I didn’t know that her mother and grandmothers were reading this.) I had even considered not taking her along, until she (and her mother) insisted.

So I told her, “When your bobber goes under, count to two, ‘One, two,’ then pull it up. OK?” “OK, Dad,” she answered, with a tone that said, What do you think I am, an idiot?

And she soon proved me wrong, because before I had MY hook baited, I heard Mollie counting, “One, two.” Then she started pulling up on her line, her rod tip trembling. She lifted it over her head, but with six feet of line in the water, she wasn’t making much headway, and couldn’t even see the fish.

I was tempted to grab the line from her and pull it in myself. A vision of a five-pound bass crossed my mind. But I caught myself, and instead just stood next to her. “Walk away from the hole,” I said. She started walking, and soon another crappie was flopping on the ice.

That became the pattern of the day. The kids caught a fish every 10 minutes or so, and I watched them.

Yes, Bob Dutcher, I had a pole in the water. No, Bob Dutcher, I didn’t catch any fish at all. Remember, I said ice fishing with kids could be humbling.

What David failed to catch when
 fishing with small children.

In fact, I think Mollie caught the two biggest crappies on Fox Lake last Sunday. I know the guys around me didn’t seem to have much luck. Every so often they’d yell, and a little panfish would flop onto the ice. But mostly they stood around in their snowmobile suits and grumbled about their lousy luck, and mumbled about how much better the fish were biting yesterday, and watched—humbly—as Mollie would count “One; two,” and walk away from her hole to drag another crappie onto the ice.

One of the other guys even laughed when Mollie pulled a large one out nice and easy and said, “That one was sure polite, Dad.”

We talk to Mollie a lot about being polite. I guess she knows a polite crappie when she catches one.

This is a year or two later, but our kids weren't too bothered by the cold.

The only low point of the afternoon came when Mollie ventured onto some smooth ice next to Dave Balut’s fishing shack and promptly fell and cracked her forehead. Then she cried, and THEN she realized that she was cold and that the fish had stopped biting. And then she wanted to go home.

But a cup of hot chocolate bought some time, as did the minnow bucket. She had watched me bait the hooks enough to try it herself, sο she rolled up her coat sleeve and played with the minnows for ten minutes. I warned her that her hands would get cold. My hands were cold, and I only put them in the water for a few seconds at a time. But tell that to Mollie. She had a great time until her hands DID get cold, and then she truly did want to go home.

That was all right, because by then the fish had gone home too, and most of the grizzled fishermen that surrounded us had too. Besides, we had enough fish for supper.

Fried up with plenty of oil and butter and some farm eggs, all the cold hands and cracked foreheads and all the dads’ humility in the world is well worth the effort of an afternoon of ice fishing with the kids.

Some things that money can’t buy ~ March 3, 1991

David Heiller

It started with Alvin Jensen’s scrap wood.

Alvin, 82, had cleaned out his basement a few weeks back, and had filled a large plastic bag with pieces of scrap wood from his various woodworking projects, things like birdhouses, puzzles, rocking horses, and baskets.

He stopped me one morning and asked if I could use it. Of course, I said yes; I’ve never met a piece of wood I didn’t like, and neither has my woodstove.

(LESSON NUMBER OΝE: Never turn down free firewood.)

A few days later, Alvin came into the American and wondered if I wanted half of cord of wood in his basement.

Alvin and Marie.

“It’s pretty dry,” he said with a chuckle. “It’s been there since the early 1970s.”

Alvin, like many of his peers, scrimps and saves and Prepares (with a capital P) for emergencies. He had bought a cord of wood from Ed Ellson back when the Arab Oil Embargo hit, and put in a wood stove in his basement to be Prepared.

But for the some reason, the chimney wouldn’t draw properly, so their basement would fill up with smoke, and Marie Jensen would have nothing to do with that, thank you, Embargo or not.

Alvin agreed, but being a full-blooded Dane, he was stubborn enough to hold onto that wood in his basement for 18 years, just in case. When he told Marie that he was giving me a bag of scrap wood, she saw her chance. She “suggested” that he clean out ALL the scrap wood, including that half-cord of birch and oak, and give it to Dave.

Alvin saw his chance to save face too, and that’s where I came in.

So I borrowed a friend’s pick-up, and drove to Jensen’s last Saturday. Alvin had already brought most of the wood up to his garage for me. (Like I said, he likes to be Prepared.) As we went to get the last few pieces in his basement, he was excited to show me a woodworking project he had made. It was a jigsaw puzzle of the United States, cut out of plywood. The states were painted different colors, with the capitals printed on the back side, and the name of the state on the board where the pieces went.

I was amazed at it, at the detail of each state, it how neatly they were painted, at the perfect it. Alvin had spent hours making it. It was truly work of art, one that you couldn’t buy in a store.

Noah and Jake working on Alvin's wooden
puzzle of the United States.
And yes, our kids always aced the
"state and their capitals" tests!

“Why don’t you take it for your son?” he asked. That’s why he seemed excited; he had brought me to the basement to give me this gift.

“Are you sure?” I asked, but I knew he was sure. Alvin is the type of guy who means what he says when it comes to giving away scrap wood and cord wood and jigsaw puzzle masterpieces.

I brought Noah and Mollie to the basement, to make sure they would want it. They both marveled at it too, like me, and said yes, they would like it. They even said thank you.

When we were done loading the wood, Alvin said another thing that made me happy. “Come on in, the Mrs. has got coffee on.”

(LESSON NUMBER TWO: Never turn down coffee with a full-blooded Danish cook like Marie Jensen.)

“Mussie” had the table all set in the kitchen for us, with milk and cookies for the kids, and coffee for Alvin and me. She also had some home-made caramel rolls, with plenty of walnuts and raisins. She offered me one, and I took it. Thirty seconds later, she offered me another one, and I took that too. There are some things money can’t buy, and those caramel rolls were one of them.

We talked about this and that, and the kids drank their milk and ate cookies and made me happy and even a little proud, because they said please and thank you and didn’t destroy anything.

Malika "playing" with the Danish wren house.
We got almost as much pleasure from that
little house as the wrens did!

As we were leaving, Alvin got that twinkle in his eye again, and asked me to come to the basement. “Pick something out for your wife,” he said, sweeping his arm around shelves filled with all sorts of hand-made wooden things.

I remember Herman Klawitter, who owned a grocery store in Brownsville, told me to pick something out from his candy shelf once. I can’t remember what I picked, but I recall the thoughts that raced quickly through my mind: Should I pick the most expensive thing, or something moderate, or just something Ι really like?

I knew what I liked—and what Cindy would like—in Alvin’s basement. I walked over to one of his Danish birdhouses, and said firmly, “That’s what she would like.”

The minute I said it, I realized that I had also picked the most expensive and time-consuming project in the basement. A wave of guilt swept up. But I couldn’t help it. Those birdhouses are unbelievable, like the jigsaw puzzle. A work of art, wooden with a tin roof, complete with a fence and lamp post and bright coats of red, green, and white paint.

We had bought one for my mom a few years ago, at the Partridge Store in Askov. She and my grandma marveled at it as much as I did. The wrens like it even more. You’d almost swear that they chirp with a Danish accent every spring when they move back in.

I started apologizing to Alvin for choosing the nicest thing, but he wouldn’t hear of it, and I realized I had better leave, because there’s no telling what he would have given me next, if I had lingered. The truck was pretty full anyway.

Mollie held the bird house on her lap on the way home. I asked her if she thought it was her house. “No, but it will be when Momma doesn’t want it anymore.” (Maybe in about 50 years, kid.) Then she tried to jam a Barbie Doll into the hole. Now THAT’S a sign of a nice birdhouse.

As we drove home, I couldn’t help but smile at Alvin and Marie Jensen. They had ladened us down with firewood and toys, milk and cookies, coffee and caramel rolls, and most of all, kindness and generosity. These are all things that make our life richer, and things that money can’t buy.

Trip brought good fishing, and much more ~ February 20, 1997

David Heiller

We headed up the lake and into the Boundary Waters on Saturday morning, three people on skis, pulling sleds, heading for a weekend of winter camping and who knows what else.

The temperature was about 10 above. The sun tried to shine through a thin layer of clouds. Yet bit of snow was falling. Odd weather. Tom called it a small Alberta Clipper. He knows things like that.

Tom pulling his sled.

We stopped and took our coats off. You get a workout on cross country skis, especially with a sled tugging from behind.

Tom set the pace. He was our leader. Ben was next. He had just turned 11, and he prided himself on being able to keep up with Tom, who happened to be his dad. Staying close to Dad also allowed Ben to ask important questions.

“How long till we get to the next lake, Dad?” “How many minutes will it take to ski down this creek?”

Tom answered the questions with patience. Ηe is used to them. He heaps them at home, and probably at work from his science students at Moose Lake High School. You have to have patience to be a good dad and a good teacher.

Tom had a few questions of his own for Ben, like, “What kind of tracks are those?” Ben would usually come up with the answer. Mink. Fox. Otter. They all left their trails in the snow.

Two dog teams came up behind us. We stepped off the trail and let them pass with a friendly wave. Two men with each team, eight dogs to a team. They said they were headed for Knife Lake.

Tom said two of the men were clients, and two were guides who were being paid $200 a day fog the hard job of taking them fishing on Knife Lake.

Dog teams are important in the Boundary Waters. Yes, they leave brown klister on the trails. But they make the trails to begin with, and when there is three feet of snow on the ground, the trails come in very handy.

On one lake we crossed, the trail had been obliterated by drifting snow. We couldn’t see a trace of it. Tom felt his way across, using his ski poles like a blind man. Without a trail to follow, we probably would have stayed home.

Tom and I took off our skis and walked over two portages. One wasn’t marked on a map. Tom knew about it. He knew the old man who had made it and used it as a trap line. He knew about a fishing hole on the other side. That’s here we headed.

What a difference the portage was in the winter. No bugs. No mud. No branches scraping on canoes. No canoes scraping on shoulders. Just trudging, pulling a sled, admiring the quiet winter woods.

But you had to stay on the trail. Once I slipped off and went up to my knee in the snow. Thank you, dog teams.

After three hours and seven miles, we came to Tom’s Bay, on Basswood Lake. We each took on different chores: First things first, of course. We dug five holes in the ice, and put in our tip ups, using frozen ciscoes for bait. We were fishing for northerns.

Tom knew this bay had promise. He knew the old man who fished it. Tom had looked down from a canoe and had seen the weed beds where the northerns spawned. The edge of the weed beds would be a gathering spot for northerns, on the best lake for northerns in Minnesota. Basswood holds the state record for northern pike, a 45 pounds, 12 ounce fish.

The Tent

Tom and Ben set up their old canvas tent. Tom’s uncle had found it in a dump. Tom cut the floor out and made it into a good winter shelter. He even cut a chimney hole and flashed it with aluminum.

They dug a trench down the middle, and made benches of snow on either side, and laid tarps on the benches. They let the benches set for a couple hours. Then they were hard enough to sit on.

Tom set up a homemade stove in the middle of the tent. He had made it out of a five-gallon fuel oil can. It worked great, and like the tent, the price was right.

Nothing fancy. Everything functional. That could be Tom’s motto. If you had to choose one person to get you through the north woods, winter or summer, you couldn’t choose better than Tom. He just plain knows what he is doing.

We cut a lot of firewood, and lit a fire by the lake, so that we could watch our tip ups and stay warm. The afternoon was starting to fade when a dogsled approached from the way we had come. It stopped 100 yards away. A man walked to us. He worked for the Forest Service.

What a job, I thought. Cruising the Boundary Waters on a dogsled for the United States Forest Service. Not exactly N.Y.P.D. Blue. He asked to see our permit. We had forgotten to fill one out. So he wrote down Tom’s name, and Tom promised to register on his way out.

The fishing was dandy

“Now all we need is a flag,” I said. The ranger glanced at the lake. “There’s one up,” he said. Sure enough and it was my tip-up.

I walked to it. My fishing luck has been down lately. In fact, this tip-up was four years old, and it had never caught a fish. Not one. I thought it might be jinxed. No point in rushing, I thought.

David didn't have his camera on this trip,
but I know he wished he did. He always brought 
it on the subsequent winter treks with Tom.

Still, as I knelt by the hole and picked up the line, I couldn’t help but feel that excitement of not knowing what was at the end of the line.

The fish had stopped running by the time I got to the hole. Whatever it was, it had either eaten the cisco or dropped it. I gave a quick tug and set the hook, and started pulling. Then the fish started pulling. It pulled hard. I let line slip through my fingers. I couldn’t tell how big it was. It seemed big. I’m not a person to get my hopes up quickly.

The fish and I played tug of war for about five minutes. Tom came running with a gaff in his hand. “You got something decent?” he asked.

“I don’t know,“ I said truthfully. But my hopes were beginning to rise.

The ranger and Ben walked over too. They all watched while the fish ran and came in, growing more tired every time. I would get to the bottom of the hole, but it would stick there like a jammed log.

Finally we saw a flash of white in the hole, and Tom stabbed his gaff. The fish twisted and disappeared. For a second I thought the line had broken. Then I felt his powerful tug. What a relief!

It was a big fish. The biggest I had ever seen on the end of my line, or anyone else’s.

Tom apologized, and grumbled to himself. He doesn’t make many mistakes. He wanted another chance. He wouldn’t miss twice. The fish came up again, and Tom yanked him out.

We all hollered and stared at the monster. “That’s a dandy,” Tom said. Α dandy is about as big a compliment as you’ll get from Tom.

One man’s dandy is another man’s monster.

“I’d say it’s at least 12 pounds,” I said with false confidence.

“It’s way more than that,” Tom answered. Even the ranger was impressed. He hollered to his partner, “Hey Zeke, look at this!” I held up the fish for Zeke and his dogs to see.

The big fish warmed us up that night. It measured 39 inches long. That made it 16.9 pounds, according to a DNR conversion table. We talked about it as we sat in the tent and fed Little Puffer, as Tom and Ben called their stove. The temperature fell to 25 below. Tom and Ben slept soundly. I shivered and squirmed all night.

The next morning, after eating oatmeal in the tent, we lit a fire by the lake, and caught two more fish right away, three pounders. Then a flag went up, and Tom told Ben to take it.

Ben knelt by the hole and set the hook. It took off. Ben pulled it in. It ran a long way. It was fighting just like mine. Ben took his time. He let the fish run when it wanted to. That’s the trick to fishing, but not all kids know it.

After about 15 minutes, it came into the hole, and Tom gaffed it on the first try. And out came another dandy, slightly bigger than mine.

I had been excited catching my trophy. But it was every bit as fun watching Ben rejoice with his. What is more fun than watching a kid catch a lunker?

We caught a lot more fish over the next day and a half. We lost count. We gave an eight pounder to a friend of Tom’s who skied in on Sunday for a visit. We let a seven pounder go. The fishing was that good.

But there was a lot more to the trip than fishing. We did a lot of talking and joshing, and a lot of sitting and listening to the wind whisper through the big white pines near our tent. We got a good feel for each other, and we got a good feel for ourselves. That always happens on a good camping trip. Catching fish is icing on the cake.

We headed for home on Monday afternoon. The sun came out, and the snow got sticky. It was hard skiing for me, like paddling into a headwind. You grit your teeth and do it. You are tempted to stop, but stopping isn’t an option, so you do it, and maybe it’s even good for you.

I could barely keep up with Tom and Ben. Ben stuck to his dad’s heels like a loyal puppy, no doubt asking his share of questions.

“How many minutes till we get to the portage?”

“When will we reach Moose Lake?”

What a pair, I thought. I wondered if Ben knew how lucky he was to have a dad like Tom, and vice versa. I think they do, although they don't need to talk about such things. Actions almost always speak louder than words.