The Lake- A Trip Back in Time
Fifty years ago this week, my father picked me up from Camp Mishawaka as I finished my second year as a camper. I remember that the first stop after Camp was the laundromat (Bridgeman’s was the reward), and I recall standing outside as he called my mother from the pay phone - declaring that he didn’t know whether to put my laundry or me in the washing machine. I had poison ivy, athlete’s foot and enough bug bites to look as if I had some sort of pox. The next stop on our post camp trip was even more memorable and involved a fishing trip to a lake that I still visit today.
Last night Jim Larsen and I took three young men into the depths of the Chippewa National Forest - off a minimum maintenance road, down an old logging trail, through four mudholes that were deep and wide enough to canoe across - and all the memories flooded back.
My father had hired a guide to take us fishing after camp, and I am not sure we really knew what we were in for when we signed on. We made this same journey fifty years ago in an “Argo”- a sort of amphibious vehicle that crawls through mud and floats. We emerged from the woods, baled an old cedar rowboat, and paddled out to fish. Within ten minutes I had landed the biggest fish I’d ever seen, a 10lb northern pike! I was excited, to say the least, but I will also always remember the excitement of the guide, who fished very little himself, and spent more time giving me pointers, untangling knots, and re-tying my lure.
As we landed our canoes last night, I swore I saw the remnants of an old cedar strip boat off to the side. But for all the neglect that boat had endured, the lake had not changed. The fishing was still outstanding, and on more than one occasion each of us in the boat had a “fish-on” at the same time-laughing like mad and cursing under our breaths for the ones that got away. All told, the five of us caught over 70 fish, and we kept enough to share with campers at lunch today.
On the trip there the kids slept most of the way. When we pulled off the main road and into the forest they roused and started to take note of the surroundings. We dragged the canoes down the slippery landing, swatting bugs and avoiding puddles and pushed off to our private lake. As the night went on I could sense their appreciation for the spot too. At several points in the evening, (unsolicited) the two in my boat just proclaimed, “this place is awesome.” I couldn’t agree more. We probably stayed a little too late, but it’s hard to leave when the fish are biting. The trip out, equally as arduous in reverse, went well, and I don’t think the boys stopped talking ‘til we pulled into Camp nearly an hour later.
It’s remarkable to me that this lake has not been “fished-out” or otherwise discovered. I have seen some traffic over the years there, but most often it is ours and ours alone. It’s large enough to support a loon population, small enough to not have to carry along a motor, and diverse enough to see ducks, eagles, beavers, and even the occasional bear. There are also more deer flies and mosquitoes than I have ever seen. To be sure, there are more remote lakes in the northwoods, but to my 10- year-old eyes (and now my 60-year old ones), it’s an adventure, and the reward is well worth the work. The fishing isn’t always as great as it was last night, or as it was in 1975, but it never disappoints.
These boys will head home with a little of that mud on their clothes, and more than a few bug bites, nothing a little washing machine and shower won’t cure. But I’d like to think that it will take a long time to wash away the memories of that evening, for them and for me as well.