Where did the winter go?

I took my last fishing trip up to Basswood three weeks ago, the morning of February 25.  The temperature was 24 degrees below zero when we arrived at the Fall Lake landing at 8:00 AM.  It was a perfect day for the teams.  We had three teams, a total of eighteen dogs.  All were in prime end-of-the-year condition and ready to roll.

Many teams had gone out ahead of us, and the landing was full of excited, barking, howling, dog teams.  We unboxed and harnessed the dogs and waited our turn, helping others get dogs hooked up and ready to go. 

First to leave were two big teams going camping, then a team hauling freight, some skiers going fishing, and two smaller teams; finally we were up.  Of course the dogs got more excited while watching all the other teams leave, so they were in a pretty big frenzy by the time we were ready to leave. 

I pulled the release snap and blasted off—down the hill, over the dip and onto the lake. We made it!  I looked back: Team Two made it and so did Team Three. We were off and heading for a day of adventure.

The trail was in great condition, and we made good time to our spot.  The temp was already moderating and very comfortable.  It was one of those incredible bluer-than-blue-sky days.  Upon arrival, the first thing we did was get the teams settled and tied out.  Then some of us worked on drilling the holes and others gathered firewood and got the fire going.  It was time for coffee, some food cooked over the fire, and fishing!

We did not see another person or team the whole day, only the vast white lake, blue, blue sky, and tall pines, calm and quiet, reaching upward.  The dogs snoozed in the sun while we relaxed and fished.  The beautiful day flew by like the birds singing their spring songs overhead.  At 3:00, we began to pack our gear, and by 3:30 we were back on the trail.  Around 4:00, as the sun set behind the trees, the temperature began to cool down and the dogs picked up the pace on a fast trail. We glided along in silence, save for the slight jingling of the necklines and the occasional grawking of a raven. 

The trip back was all too short.  The dogs head up the hill to the truck with energy to spare.

Tomorrow is Wednesday, March 17.  Every bit of snow is gone, and the temperatures have been near 50 or above for over a week.  Dog sledding is over for this year. It’s  time to hang up the harnesses, collect and organize the gear, put away the sleds, and try to explain to the dogs why we’re not running this morning . . .

There were several trucks already in the lot with dog boxes, meaning there were at least two teams already out on the trail. Another truck with a team pulled in just as we were filling out our BWCAW permit.  This was a big ice-fishing weekend.

I think all of the sled dog activity reminded Nacho of his former life, and he was ready to pull.  Sue scooted along behind him at a fast clip, trying to slow him down by holding a snowplow position, but the track was well worn and solid, not giving her much purchase.  Once Mantis realized she wasn’t going to get the lead, she trotted along behind, happy to be out for an adventure.

The day was sunny and warm (a few degrees above freezing). Despite the other vehicles in the lot, we saw no one else as we slid along the white expanse of Fall Lake, crossing below Mile Island, then skirted the far shore. The red-brown of bare pine needles on a steep, south-facing slope was a surprise. 

Our plan was to decide whether to take the 4 Mile Portage or to back-track to the Newton portage when we got to the 4 Mile, but the dogs made the decision. Up and over the berm at the tip of the trail we went.  It was, at times, a heart-stopping ride on the long, narrow portage.

We shot out into Hoist Bay of Basswood Lake in less than an hour. Since we all had energy and plenty of daylight, we traipsed up to the northeast a few miles more before we turned back. The wind was in our faces then, and Mantis was bored. I had less dog power on the way back, but the exercise was good for me, too. 

The 4 Mile was still a wild ride, especially when a red squirrel cut across the trail right in front of us and Mantis dove into the brush after it. Luckily, I accidentally wrapped the rope around a sturdy alder and it acted as a brake. 

We need to get out this weekend to check out the new snow.

Happy Father’s Day! 

I’ve decided to dedicate this blog post in memory of my father.   I hope some of you are fortunate enough to have a father like mine.  My father was born in Ely and lived his entire life here.  Since I have lived nearly all my life here also, our lives were strongly connected.  

Traditional activities like fishing were very important to my dad, and he made sure to instill an importance in them to me. I recently thought of one of my first trips with my dad–and similarly one of my last.  

When I was ten, Dad wanted to take me lake trout fishing, so we went to one of his favorite “haunts” as he liked to refer to them.  I fondly remember his teachings. There was a methodical patience with every detail to ensure that I was learning from his previous experiences. We had a great day together and caught some trout, too. Before we left to return home, the wind began to blow hard, and we had some big water to cross in our small boat.  Dad tightened my life jacket and attached a rope under my arms to the bow of the boat, instructing me to sit on my cushion in the bottom between the seats.

I remember being nervous watching the big waves as they constantly sprayed my dad’s face. Gone for now was his big grin from watching me reel in trout, replaced by a serious attention and respect for what Mother Nature was dishing up. I felt so proud of my dad the way he handled that situation, and there was nobody in my life whom I admired more. The light-hearted side of him quickly returned as he bailed out the water we took on after safely crossing the lake.

When Dad got older, it became very important to me for him to realize what he had done and how his careful guidance had shaped me. It was time to proudly honor him and pay my respect by continuing the tradition of fishing together. That day I ran the motor and took the responsibility of getting us there safely. We decided to fish from shore since it was easier for him than sitting in the boat.  After lunch, he decided to take a nap, and I continued to fish. Later, I walked up into the campsite and found him sleeping soundly under the swaying pines. He had a knack for finding the best spots for a nap. I sat there quietly watching him sleep and thought of how much he meant to me. 

As more pine needles started to fall, I realized that we had better head for home. I helped him into the boat, and he turned to face me, sitting on the bottom between the seats. We had to cross the very same portion of the lake that had challenged him nearly 30 years before. I was focusing on the waves and trying to see through the spray when I saw him staring at me with that same serious look. It was as if I were performing a recital, and the only one watching was my instructor. This was a moment when I knew damn well what Dad was thinking. I thought of our day together when our roles were reversed, and I wanted to smile if just for the coincidence, but I knew better.  

When we arrived at the portage and I started bailing out the water, Dad untied the hood of his rain jacket, and I saw that big chipped-tooth grin again. “It was a little rough out there,” he said.

“Yea, it reminded me a lot of our trip when I was a kid, only I didn’t tie you in like you did to me!” I hollered back.

“You didn’t have to. I knew we were safe the whole time,” Dad said.

I winked at him, and he patted me on the back. “You know, I had a good teacher,” I said.

I received a humble nod of agreement in return.

Dad on a very hot Father's Day in the late 90s

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