(May 24, 2009)
Yesterday, I worked my tail off in the yard. Our lawn is huge. It takes four hours to mow, another hour to trim. I also tilled the vegetable garden, transplanted some roses (a chore on my “Honeydo” list) and did some miscellaneous stuff around our place on the banks of the Cloquet River. It’s not like I was doing this all by myself. My wife Rene’ was out in her flower gardens, pulling quack grass and working just as hard to make our place shine. So when we were done and our son and his buddies were content at play, we loaded up our old square stern aluminum canoe, fired up the Honda two horse, and went downriver in search of walleye.
The trip was delayed because Jimi Hendrix, the family dachshaund, ran franticly along the bank trying to keep pace. Rene’ solved the problem by locking him in the garage. We were home free. Not. Daisy, our very bright but slightly deranged black lab mix followed us. First, she dove in the cold waters of the river and crossed to the far side. I opened up the throttle on the motor in hopes we’d outrun her. But she hung with us, swimming back and forth across the wide river whenever she needed to cut off territory. Eventually, we came to the pool where we usually fish. And there was Daisy, a mile from home and soaking wet, waiting for us.
Daisy was entertained for the better part of an hour by a family of beaver who, not knowing her domestic upbringing, took her for a coyote. Every few minutes, the thunderous slap of a beaver tail sounded the alarm as the dog pawed and snuffled at a newly remodeled beaver lodge at the water’s edge. After a couple of hours of no fish, I loaded the meandering dog into the canoe and the three of us headed upriver. A solitary male partridge amorously drummed somewhere on a log in the depths of the maple scrub forest. Ducks took wing. A great blue heron rose slowly out of the marsh. The sun descended.
Another day on the river.
