George Millard, Fritz Mondale, Mark Munger, Harry Munger
Last year was the year of the great stone walleye deception. I’ll not bore you with the details. You can read about it in the archives (“A New Faith is Born!”). Suffice it to say, this year’s annual Octogenarian fishing trip to Elsie Lake, Ontario as guests of the Litman family was uneventful. Whereas last year, in addition to the stone walleye caper, our group experienced an unexpected evening in a motel in Ignace, this year was sedate, contemplative, and involved moments of fishing frenzy followed by hours of searching for fish on the choppy cold waters of a Canadian wilderness lake. I drove my blue Pacifica into Duluth to pick up my father Harry, George Millard, and Walter “Fritz” Mondale. George and Fritz were staying at the Willard Munger Inn. After trying out all of the ritzy roosts in town over the twenty or more years of this annual fishing sojourn, a couple of years back the two old friends settled on staying at the Willard, a motel my uncle built back in the 1950s and now run by his grandson, Jeff. After picking up George and Fritz (and nearly forgetting George’s suitcase in the process!), we headed towards UMD’s Heaney Hall to pick up my old man. The fact that my passengers were staying in a motel named after a DFL politician and in an apartment complex named after one of the founding fathers of the DFL Party should not be lost on the reader. These men are unabashed Liberals with a capital “L”. And oh the stories and the banter between Duluth and Grand Marais, where we stopped for breakfast at the Blue Water Cafe and where Sammy Perrella and his son, Tony waited for us! The collective history and wisdom in the Pacifica was something to behold and left me, as the youngest buck in the herd, in awe of the accomplishments of the men I was ferrying to Ontario. Over breakfast, Tony, a wide-eyed economics major at the University of St. Thomas (a school George once taught at) listened to the old men pontificate and philosophize. Sammy, who since our last excursion to Elsie, had suffered and survived a stroke, smiled, the residuals of his scare hidden by therapy and determination, as he watched his son engage with Fritz, a man who has held the second highest office in the land and served as our nation’s ambassador to Japan.
We crossed the border without incident and arrived at Ignace Airways a few hours later. We filled two float planes; a De Havilland Beaver and an Otter with food, fishing gear, suitcases, gasoline, and propane and, one after the other, the planes lumbered across the watery surface of an Ontario lake before becoming airborne for the short flight to Elsie. The landings were smooth. The planes were quickly unloaded in turn and re-loaded with garbage, gear, and passengers for the return to Ignace. The departing crew had been at the Litman camp for a week getting the place ready for our party. Most of the heavy lifting had been done by the time we set foot on the wooden dock outside the cabin. After stowing gear and rolling out our sleeping bags on our bunks, the crew, which now included Ross and Jay Litman, and Doc Bob Donley, distinguished neurosurgeon and noted conservative (the foil for many of my father and Fritz Mondale’s kinky liberal ideals) headed out onto the lake. The walleye were biting, though, true to his serious nature when it comes to fishing, the Sheriff (Ross) deadpanned that “they’re just not biting like they should.”
Sam and Tony Perrella
I was given the task of guiding Sam and Tony. Now understand: I am not a great fisherman and I am certainly no expert on the whiles and whereabouts of Lake Elsie walleye. But, in the end, we found fish. Plenty of fish to keep our boat occupied until the sky darkened and it was time to head back to camp.
Nightfall, Lake Elsie
Saturday dawned and the place revealed a familiar routine. Jay would, for the most part when not spelled by Ross or Sam, cook our meals. Big, steaming lumberjack-style breakfasts welcomed sleepy fishermen each morning: eggs, pancakes, sausage, ham, bacon, and toast, all punctuated with coffee that, if Ross was the first one up, barely flowed out of the pot given its tarry consistency. Caffeine free? Hardly. The first meal of the day was followed by clean up, with George and I in charge of the dishes, and the others pitching in where needed. Then it was back into the boats for late morning and afternoon fishing, followed by naps, reading Helen Litman’s wide-ranging library of paperback novels, and steam baths in the camp’s wood-fired sauna. After one of the sauna baths, Doc Donley braved the frigid lake fully equipped with goggles and snorkel, patrolling the water off the dock in search of god-knows-what.
Doc and Fritz during chore time
Sunday found me guiding George and Sammy. Again, I got lucky and, despite my lack of fishing prowess, found the walleye. We also netted the occasional lake trout and whitefish, along with a few small mouth bass, though the primary catch was walleye, fished shallow and with pink and white jigs tipped with minnows or worms and dragged slowly along the lake’s rocky bottom. Having purchased a conservation license, I didn’t keep any fish. Only walleye within the appropriate slot that were foul hooked, the barbs stuck deep in the fish, were kept for the frying pan. Ross’s classic outdoor fish fry, one of the highlights of these trips, loomed in the future but we had time, we all thought, to catch and keep what we’d need for the feast.
Sunday night, the weather turned and rain pounded the lake. The storm scattered the walleye and exposed my guiding deficiencies. Monday, George and Sammy and I worked hard to find fish when we were finally able to get out but the walleye were few and far between.
Storm on the lake
The frenzy, the ease of the first two and a half days of fishing, was replaced by long, extended periods between walleye or trout or bass or whitefish. But the food. And the company. Ah. The meals; ribs and brisket, burgers and brats, Sammy’s pizza and pasta, and a host of other culinary delights; along with lively political, religious, philosophical, legal, medical, and sports discussions filled any void caused by the diminished appetites of the walleye. We didn’t solve the world’s problems or come up with concrete advice to send along to the new pope, but we did have spirited yet respectful debate on any number of worldly and heavenly topics, evincing that men of a certain age can, if they listen to each other, share views without name-calling or coming to blows. Through it all, Ross, the tireless worker bee, buzzed around camp, fixing and toting and moving and repairing so that each guest, each temporary resident of the Litman Camp, experienced a blissful, worry-free stay.
Ross, Fritz, and Harry read to stalk the elusive walleye
Union Steward George Millard taking an unauthorized break from work
As always, despite the slow fishing the last two days of our trip, when Ross announced it was time to start packing up on Wednesday morning, after the last of the eggs were eaten and the last of the morning dishes was done, the sadness of leaving came over me. My job as a district court judge takes bits and pieces of my humanity; the day-to-day grind of court eats away at one’s optimism and faith in mankind as one deals with folks at their worst, at usually the lowest point in their lives. But a few days away from the Internet, Wi-Fi, cell phones, courtrooms, and legalese cannot be understated in terms of a fishing trip’s restorative powers. I’m hoping the Sheriff and his brother invite us back again. Maybe the fish will be more cooperative. Maybe they won’t. But five days at Lake Elsie in the company of three old men, a college kid, a pizza maker, a Sheriff, a carpenter, and a neurosurgeon, with or without walleye biting, beats most everything else I’ve tried as a vacation.
Peace.
Mark
The crew (minus Sam)
The crew (without the author)
The Sheriff and Jada after chores
