Behind the Lines: by David Heiller

David Heiller Tom declared war on the trout at about 11:30 Sunday morning, February 18. We were camped on an island on Thomas Lake, 12 miles into the boundary waters. We had caught only two trout since pulling in the day before, and that just wasn’t cutting it for Tom. “It’s time to get serious about fishing, I’ll tell you that,” he said as he toasted a bagel with jam over the campfire. Tom was always toasting something good. Tom doing some serious ice chopping. “I thought we were serious,” I said. We had four lines in the water at various depths, in a tried and true spot—one that Tom picked out, I might add. We checked the flags on the tip-ups every few minutes. We chopped open the frozen holes every half hour or so. That’s not serious? “That’s not serious,” Tom replied, as if he could read my mind. “I mean serious. We’re going to go after them. Drill new holes. Move around. Start jigging.” I felt like doing 20 push-ups on the spot. Tom stalked onto the ice to che...

David Heiller Tom pointed out the bare hills bordering Moose Lake shortly after we started skiing down it on Saturday, February 23. They looked black and stony, as if a fire had burned them, but the deforestation actually came from a wind storm. The real magnitude of that famous July 4, 1999 storm hit us a little later, as we skied on a portage into Rice Lake. Three years ago, the portage was right out of a Boundary Waters postcard. Big, beautiful birches and poplars lined the ski trail. But not now. About 90 percent of the trees were on the ground, or snapped off at right angles 15 feet above the ground. They all lay in the same direction, as if a volcano had erupted to the west. David cooking on Little Puffer . “Look at all the new growth,” Tom said when we st opped in the midst of the mess. He was right; you couldn’t put your arm out without hitting a small tree. Fickle old Mother Nature was fast at work, undoing the damage she had wrought. And once we got to...

David Heiller 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. That’s what we wondered when we woke up last Monday morning on Tom’s Bay on Basswood Lake. 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 s o n, 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 t...

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 temperatu re was about 10 above. The sun t ri ed to shine through a thin layer o f 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 be hind. 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 D a d 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 s...