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.
No comments:
Post a Comment