Jack and Callie in Jack’s Solo Old Town
Sometimes, my youngest son, a single, avid outdoorsman who works hard at his production job for a local company but plays equally hard on his three-day weekends (fishing every lake between Hayward and Ely in his solo canoe or his 12′ fishing boat; sharptail hunting in NW MN; pheasant and sharpie and Hun hunting in SW MN, ND, and MT; grouse hunting in NE MN; and ice fishing, again, all over the map) has some really good ideas. Like the Cast, Walk Past, No Blast day trip we made recently. That was a bit of a test for the Old Man as, a week before, I’d taken a tumble off the bottom stair of our front porch, landing on concrete with both knees, straining both hamstrings in the process. I was a hurt unit after that event. It was excruciating sitting in our Old Town 18′ canoe as we fished for trout on that earlier excursion. But we caught some splake and rainbows (he more than I), though the rainy, drizzly weather made our first joint grouse hunt a bust. Still, the two Britts (Callie and Sammy) had an absolute ball even though they only flushed three birds over several hours of scampering, snuffling, and pointing. But I came away from that one-day adventure thinking, How am I going to spend three days in a canoe? I mean, my hammies screamed the entire time we were on the water. Walking the woods was better. But being confined to the rear seat of a canoe? It was some of the worst pain I’ve ever endured.
Even so, a promise is a promise. Jack and I put together the gear needed for a BWCA paddle for four adults-sons Jack, Dylan, and Matt and myself; and Matt’s two boys, 13 year old Adrien and 10 year old Avery. All have been in the wilderness on Munger Marches multiple times, except Avery whose sole experience to the BWCA was with his dad, brother, and I when Avery was 4. Despite Grandpa’s fears, we planned our trip and God planned the weather, which, though windy, was sunny and absolutely perfect the entire time. The drive to the Tofte Ranger station to pick up our permit and watch the obligatory “Caring for the Wilderness” video included a pit stop at the Two Harbors McDonald’s (we were on the road by 7:00am, picking up Dylan in Hermantown by 7:30: right on schedule for once!). From there, it was gravel forest roads to our point of entry. Loading the canoes at the landing, paddling, and portaging all went according to plan with no grumbling, arguing, or lost gear.
Dylan’s First ‘Eye of the Trip
After a lengthy meander into our favorite BWCA walleye factory (my hips cried out for mercy the entire way), passing many occupied campsites before finding an open spot, landing three canoes (two doubles (Matt’s included Avery as a duffer) and Jack’s solo), setting up camp, and hoisting the food pack above bear-reach, we got to the business at hand and caught some walleye our first day on the water. We kept one of Avery’s fish as he insisted, though fish was not on the menu, “I want walley for dinner.” Uncle Jack cleaned Avery’s ‘eye, cooked it, and served it up to his beaming nephew who gobbled down the two fillets in seconds. “That’s the best fish ever,” my grandson said. Dylan agreed. “Grandpa and Grandma had us over for a fsh feast a couple of weeks’ ago (the fish were some crappies and walleye Jack had caught) and it was so much better than fish sticks!” What did the rest of the canoe crew have for dinner? Mountain House Chicken Fajita Bowl, teriyaki instant rice, and cherry Kool-Aid. Dylan did the dishes. The kids enjoyed hot cocoa before bed and the adults, well a couple of my sons enjoyed a nip of an adult beverage as darkness cloaked the shoreline. Me? I was too worn out and tired for such youthful shenanigans. I hit the hay before 9:30.
Dusk on Secret Lake
Grandpa’s Solo Tent and Site. (Well, not really solo since Callie cuddled with Gramps when not fishing or on chipmunk patrol.)
Callie on Chipmunk Duty
Morning filtered into the tent. After hot coffee for the adults and hot cocoa for the kids, instant oatmeal, and breakfast bars, the adventurers ventured out and battled a raging wind in search of more fish. I fished with Jack and Callie, and as usual, the son outfished the father. I’d like to blame my screaming hips (due to a sleepless, pain-filled night) for my ineptitude but that’s not fair. My youngest son is simply a better fisherman than I am. As Jack and I fished, Matt and the boys enjoyed some hammock time. Dylan read a Game of Thrones novel in his tent and tried to catch up on missed sleep. Jack and I kept some perch and small walleye because fish was indeed on the dinner menu. Eventually, Matt and the boys joined us on the water and caught a few small walleye. Lunch, as it was the day before, consisted of tangerines, PB & J on soft tortillas, more Kool-Aid (orange flavor this time), and Hershey’s miniatures. After lunch, Dylan and I paddled into a bay we hadn’t fished. He caught another walleye for dinner, hooked into a 4-5# pike that went airborne before biting off the line, and I caught a walleye no bigger than a smelt. With dusk approaching, we paddled towards camp, dropped off Dyl’s fish where Jack was cleaning dinner (all remains were packed into the forest for disposal as per Forest Service regs) and headed back to start dinner.
Oh. One more thing about that second day of fishing. As Dylan and I approached Jack on the point, we heard a commotion behind us coming from the Other Mungers’ canoe. We had no idea what was going on until Matt and the boys paddled up to the campsite. Grandson Adrien, tired of missing little perch and walleye with his worm-tipped jig, had changed baits and thrown a surface plug into the lily pads. Bam! He latched onto a completely unexpected trophy: Adrien’s largemouth bass, landed without a net, tipped the scales at 5 and 1/2#! After taking a couple of obligatory shots for posterity, she was released back to the tannin to swim away and breed again. Talk about smiles!
Jack With Dinner/Adrien and Grandpa Admire the Giant Bass/Adrien with His Lunker (Note Avery’s envious gaze!)
Dinner was fish coated in classic Shore Lunch, the fillets rolled in French’s mustard and fried over a single burner stove, as well as Mountain House entrees (Chili Mac and regular Mac), chicken fried rice, and hot cocoa (welcomed by all: it was breezy and a cool though still clear as a bell). Matt handled the dishes as the boys, their uncles, and a very sore Grandpa watched and planets stars appear, heard swans and sandhills echo against descending dark, and took in the BWCA’s sacred, quiet, beauty. When the adult beverage appeared, it was time for the Oldster to head to his tent with his Brittany. Once inside the tent with the pup, I realized my sleep deprivation was due to my sleeping pad not being fully inflated. Situation fixed, I struggled in my tiny home-away-from-home to pull my trousers off and slide my creaking body into my mummy bag, the very tired from rodent-chasing Britt nestled at my side. Getting old means not being flexible (and I was one of the stiffest guys on the planet before turnings 70!) and dressing and undressing in a space meant for Munchkins is no easy feat!
About the only disappointment of the trip was, try as we may to find dry firewood (you’re limited to deadfall and can’t cut trees or peel bark by Forest Service regs, which makes abundant sense given 200,000 folks use the BWCA and its sensitive, no topsoil campsites every year), our efforts amounted to sputtering, ineffective fires at night.
Jack Working His Eagle Scout Magic on the Fire (Not!)
Matt and Adrien Waiting for Oatmeal/Waterfall Portage
The second morning, it was breakfast as usual; meaning instant oatmeal, breakfast bars, tangerines, cocoa, coffee, and the last of the Kool-Aid. There was some grumbling (Dylan) that, “In the old days, Dad used to make us pancakes, bacon, and scrambled eggs” on these trips. True enough. But Dad can’t quite carry the loads he once did, or solo portage a Duluth Pack and an 85# canoe, or make eleven portages in a single day with three young sons in tow (with René happy not to be on that escapade to watch her husband and sons scramble over rocks and haul canoes and gear). So, you get what you get, second son! Despite sleeping another night on a rock, the sleeping pad worked its magic and, after packing up, loading the canoes, ensuring the fire was out (it never really got started!), and beginning our long paddle back to real life, miracle of miracles, my hamstrings almost felt normal. Maybe my prayers for healing worked. Maybe the Ibuprofen kicked in. Whatever it was, the long slog back to the landing was bearable.
In my worst moment of post-fall-from-the-porch-pain in the Coleman canoe, I’d confided to Dylan, “This might be Dad’s last canoe trip …”
But every day is a new day and I’m rethinking that statement as I type this chronicle of a short but epic journey into one of God’s true wonders.
There might just be one more paddle in this Old Man’s body.
Thanks, Jack, for inviting the Munger Family into another of your adventures.
PS Pizza and and a cold Castle Danger Cream Ale enjoyed in Tofte after hitting the blacktop restores a man’s soul and his faith in himself!
