De Havilland Otter Leaving Elsie Lake, Ontario
The trip started off inauspiciously. I was charged by my eighty-five year old father to arrive at the Country Inn Suites in Hermantown, pick up former Vice President Walter “Fritz” Mondale and his traveling companion, George Millard, by 6:00am. Wednesday morning of last week I tumbled out of bed, into the shower, brushed my hair and teeth (not with the same brush), loaded the Pacifica with my fishing gear, and headed south on Lavaque Road. I arrived at the Country Inn Suites on time, fully expecting Fritz and George to be waiting in the lobby with their gear. But the lobby was empty so I approached a young man manning the front desk. There was an aura of the Himalayas about the lad and an inflection of the Ganges in his speech.
“Could you ring Mr. Mondale’s room?”
The desk clerk checked his computer.
“No one here by that name.”
“Mr. Walter Mondale,” I insisted, putting emphasis on the surname of one of the most famous politicians in Minnesota history.
“Don’t see it.”
“How about George Millard?”
A quick scan.
“Nope.”
I knew instantly that Harry, my father, had “Mungerized, i.e., given me only part of the story on the expectation I’d figure out what was going on. It’s a common trait of Munger males to impart a portion of the story on the belief that the Munger male receiving the information will fill in the missing pieces.
“Oh, didn’t I tell you? They’re at the Country Inn Suites down on Canal Park. Come pick me up first,” Dad said after I reached him on my cell phone and explained the former vice president and his aide de camp were missing.
When I arrived at the familial homestead, Harry was standing outside, a pile of gear the size of Mt. Denali stacked in front of him.
“How do you expect to put all that in the Pacifica and still have room for George’s and Fritz’s stuff?”
Dad smiled.
“Relax. This is for all three of us.”
I managed to stuff everything into the cargo area of the Pacifica, including Dad’s rod holder, a seven foot long steel tube the size of a small culvert. We picked up the two wayward octogenarians on time, shared handshakes, shoved their ditty bags into the car, and headed north, up Highway 61, towards the border.We met my dad’s pal, Bruce Meyers, Sammy Perella (of Sammy’s Pizza fame) and Sam’s son Tony for breakfast in Grand Marais.
Our destination was Ignace, Ontario, where we would board one of Ignace Airway’s ancient but well-maintained De Havilland float planes (made in Canada, of course) for a twenty-minute flight into Elsie Lake. We were to be guests of Ross and Jay Litman, two of the late Jack and Helen Litman’s kids, at a fishing camp that has been in the Litman family since the late 1960s. The old guys in my car have been at the Litman place dozens of times over the years. This is only my third trip. Given the ages of my passengers, when Ross Litman (who also happens to be our local sheriff) asked me to tag along, I had little choice. While there may be some ninety-year-old walleye fishermen out there, tossing jigs on rock piles into the evening dusk, they’re about as rare as a Minnesota Twins sweep. So I cancelled all my other summer plans to make the trip.
A little history. My first visit to Elsie Lake was as a newlywed. My wife Rene’ and I were invited by the Litmans (both Jack and Helen were alive and in robust health back in 1978) to spend our honeymoon with the Litman, Mondale, and Munger families. I was in law school and we didn’t have much money so my new bride and I readily agreed. Sleeping on separate lawn chairs in a canvas tent under starry Ontario skies while surrounded by Secret Service agents, Mounties, and OPP (Ontario Provincial Police) because we were vacationing with the Vice President of the United States is a tale that we’ve recounted hundreds of times over the years. My other trip to the Litman place was five or so years ago. That fishing trip, similar to the one I was on, is not quite as memorable as my honeymoon but my recollections of that trip are filled with laughter, good fishing, politics, and great stories none-the-less.
It’s always unnerving, even if you are law abiding and have nothing to hide, to cross an international border. For me, its more harrowing coming back to the States than leaving. I think this is because, over the years, I’ve noticed that Canadian border agents tend to be more friendly, more willing to show their human side, than their American counterparts.This trip supplied further support for that perception.
“Weren’t you Vice President of the States?” a young, burly border officer asked as he studied Fritz’s passport.
“I was.”
“Under Jimmy Carter, right?”
“That’s right.”
“I loved that man. You did good work. You folks have a great trip.”
We drove away from the crossing, discussing how unlikely it would be for an American border guard to know who the premier of Canada was.
Litman Camp, Elsie Lake, Ontario
During the drive from the border to Ignace and the flight from Ignace to the lake, we counted eight moose of all sizes and genders browsing the boreal landscape. Seeing that many moose on a single trip was a first for me and gave me hope that, despite the dire condition of Minnesota’s moose population, these strangely configured relatives of deer will remain an iconic fixture north of the border. From the plane, Sammy and I spotted a big animal, likely a bull, browsing a clear cut just a few miles from our destination. We were still talking about the moose when we exited the plane to shake hands with Jay and Ross Litman on the dock of the Litman fishing camp.
Ross and his dogs see the Otter off.
Our group immediately lost Jay.With news that his first grandchild was about to be born back in Duluth, Jay left on the Otter that flew us in. He stayed with us long enough to help unload our gear, go over the menu with Sammy (Jay is an excellent cook and usually commands the Elsie Lake kitchen), take a quick dip in the lake, and head back for the emergent birth of a new generation of Litmans. (As of the writing of this blog, the baby hasn’t yet made his or her appearance: Jay’s hurried trip back to Duluth was based upon a false alarm.) After staking our claims to bunks in the bunkhouse, Ross assigned us to boats and, with full expectations of slaughtering the walleyes, we headed out. I was second mate on the pontoon boat with the sheriff, assisting with untangling snarls and snags involving the old guys and trying not to step on the dogs, all three of which insisted on being on the boat with us. The walleyes were biting but it took this author, a modest fisherman at best, some time to get in the groove. I watched everyone on the boat: The sheriff, George, Frtiz, and my old man land fish before I finally felt the tight, steady pull of a cold water walleye on my line. Despite my mediocre success, the night was grand, with calm waters, a light breeze, few bugs, and the slowly setting sun reminding us that it was time to head in.
The next day, I fished with Sammy and Tony and we hit the “honey” hole with the others. All of us did well. At times, all three boats had fish on, sometimes doubles within a boat.
Sammy Perella and an Elsie walleye.
Whenever we weren’t on the water, catching walleyes, whitefish, lake trout, small mouth bass, and the very occasional northern pike, Ross was a whirling dervish. He was constantly organizing, lifting, toting, repairing; all at light speed. My wife and kids complain that I move too fast, that I don’t relax, that I’m constantly on the go. I don’t hold a candle to the sheriff in the mobility department. He’s a man, as best as I can describe it, in perpetual motion from dawn to dusk.
The author reading Maugham during a break from fishing.
It wasn’t all time spent on the water enticing fish with jigs and spinners tipped with worms and leeches. (My dad insisted on using strips of sucker belly on his lures. Our universal derision at his choice turned to envy when he started pulling in fish. Minnows, on the other hand, didn’t seem to tempt the very selective walleye of Elsie Lake.) When we weren’t fishing, Ross had us mowing, raking, organizing, cleaning, cooking, doing dishes, and toting. There’s a lot to do when a camp isn’t accessible by road and everything from gasoline for the outboards to toilet paper has to be planned for, accounted for, and flown in. But the good sheriff gave us time to read (I finished three books including two from Helen’s personal library that I will be reviewing on this site), sauna, discuss politics (imagine being seventeen year old Tony in the presence of four octogenarians, one of whom lived in Peru, another who was a US Senator, Ambassador to Japan, and Vice President, and two others who were trial attorneys with nearly a century of practice between them), play cribbage, and simply leave the world’s troubles behind.
I ended up functioning as a guide for my old man (didn’t really do the title justice) and Bruce (we found walleyes during intermittent rain in prodigious numbers despite my lack of guiding prowess), George’s perpetual dish washing partner, and mop and broom boy for the trip’s final cleanup. Late night runs down the dock and into the cold waters of a legacy carved into the Canadian shield, my skin prickly from the 195 degree heat of the camp’s wood-fired sauna, smooth, clear water closing over me as I descended to the pebbly bottom of the lake, capped off a wonderful time with four old men, a great backup cook. a wide-eyed teen, and one hell of a host.
Ross Litman, Sammy Perella, Tony Perella, and George Millard. The sheriff cleans our catch.
Maybe, if I promise to pick up the pace, Sheriff Litman will invite me back again.
Peace.
Mark
Yellow swallowtails at Elsie Lake.
Fritz Mondale, Bruce Meyers, George Millard, and Harry Munger.
PS On our way back through U.S. Customs, I teased the former Vice President that the American manning the booth wouldn’t recognize him. Turned out to be the case. The agent didn’t evince a hint of recognition, much less engage Mr. Mondale as his Canadian counterpart had. Fame, it seems, is a transient thing.
