Sawbill pt.7
Our last morning in the Boundary Waters, I was rewarded for getting up early by finding Sawbill Lake covered in an eerie blanket of fog.
Add comment August 17th, 2010
Posts filed under 'Sawbill'
Sawbill pt.6
In my nearly 30 years of going up to Sawbill, I never once even heard of such a thing as a “dome dance”, much less attended one. But apparently, every summer, the good folks at the Sawbill Canoe Outfitters host a dance in their dome, and they invite any and all staying in the campground to come and join in on the fun. And that’s just what we did.
When we arrived, the dome (where the outfitters used to store most of their rental equipment) was already alive with music from the four-piece band, as a “caller” led the group of dancers through a mix of Swedish & Irish folk songs. Of course, we went into it thinking we’d just be wallflowers, drinking our cans of beer whilst sitting a safe distance away from any actual dancing. But we probably weren’t even there a full three minutes, when the caller instructed the dancers to find new partners, and the next thing we knew, two cute Sawbill employees were inviting my brother and I to dance.
I’d be lying if I didn’t say I had a blast, do si do-ing around the room, er dome. It was next to impossible not to smile the whole time, and it got even better when we volunteered my dad and his buddy to take our places for the next dance (that’s them above frolicking around in a circle with their arms in the air). Good times…
3 comments August 16th, 2010
Sawbill pt.5
“It is good to have an end to journey toward;
but it is the journey that matters, in the end”
-Ursula K. LeGuin
Add comment August 15th, 2010
Sawbill pt.4
The day before we arrived to the Boundary Waters, we were very saddened to hear that Frank Hansen, the founder of the Sawbill Canoe Outfitters (back in 1957), passed away at the age of 89 after being diagnosed just a few weeks earlier with acute leukemia. Hearing this news, I could not help but think of my grandfather and the decades-long friendship he and Frank had. Every summer, for over 40 years, my grandpa returned to Sawbill with his family, and I know he always looked forward to catching up with Frank on what had transpired over the 11 months since they seen each other last.
While it’s really sad that both men are gone now, the legacy they leave behind in this incredible place is so tangible, that being there, it’s impossible not to feel to their presence close by. And if there is a heaven above, I’d like to think that these two guys are sitting out on the porch together, talking about where the fish are biting…
Add comment August 14th, 2010
Sawbill pt.3
Of course, no trip to Sawbill would be complete without a visit to the scene of the crime.
Add comment August 13th, 2010
Sawbill pt.2
Solaced with the echo, the hallowed echo,
the echo of the northern loon…
- Terry-Lynn Johnson
Add comment August 12th, 2010
Sawbill pt.1
It’s hard to believe that it’s been four years since I last visited Sawbill, but thank god I finally got back up there. A piece of my soul most definitely resides in this incredible place, and even just a few days in the Boundary Waters last week, went a long way to making me feel whole again.
3 comments August 11th, 2010
Highway 61 Revisited
Well Georgia Sam he had a bloody nose
Welfare Department they wouldn’t give him no clothes
He asked poor Howard where can I go
Howard said there’s only one place I know
Sam said tell me quick man I got to run
Ol’ Howard just pointed with his gun
And said that way down on Highway 61
- Bob Dylan
Add comment August 10th, 2010
Boundary Waters pt.9
Here’s a shot from the three-day trek through the BWCA that I took with Pete & Paul, looking from inside our tent out onto Cherokee Lake. We were so fortunate to happen upon such an incredible campsite, and the night we were there, the stars were seriously so bright that you could walk around the site without a flashlight and still see everything clear as day. It was like one of those classic films where they wash the film in blue light to cheat a daylight scene for night. It was surreal. And after having lived in Los Angeles for over seven years now, where we’re lucky if we can see a star or two on any given evening, I can only daydream about getting back underneath such an amazing canopy of constellations and galaxies as far as the eye can see…
Add comment September 20th, 2009
Boundary Waters pt.8
I’ll never forget the day that my dad and I went over to Smoke Lake (that’s my padre fishing in the canoe above). I was probably in junior high at the time, and it was kind of a big deal to me that just the two of us were going to make the trek all the way to Smoke, which involves a decent amount of canoeing and a fairly long portage, particularly in the eyes of a pre-teen. And that afternoon – man, did we find the fish. It seemed like we were getting another Northern pike on the line with every other cast we made, and for a few hours, it was nothing but total bliss. But then of course, there was the one that got away…
I should probably back up and explain my utter passion as a kid for catching Northern pike, aka the water wolf of the Boundary Waters. While most in my family, especially my grandpa, sort of frowned upon fishing for pikes, mainly because their fillets were full of bones, every summer I was on conquest to catch these suckers. I think it all possibly stemmed from when I was four years old, and I somehow landed a pike nearly the size of me while fishing with my folks out by the little island on Sawbill. Northern pike are a beautiful-yet-evil-looking fish with razorblades for teeth, and even a small one will give you a hell of a fight. Plus, pikes can grow to be huge, and I so wanted to catch something big given that there was a annual competition in our family to see who could catch that summer’s largest fish. We literally had a trophy (my dad’s idea), and each year, the person who caught the biggest fish got his or her name engraved on it. You could say that we were a bit of a competitive family. Yeah, you could definitely say that, and I’ll be damned if I didn’t want my name on that little trophy.
So there we were, back in our favorite little bay on Smoke, catching a bunch of pike, walleyes and smallmouth bass – nothing huge, but having a really great time. I was casting my favorite orange floating rapala along the shoreline, and I remember placing the plug into what looked like the perfect spot for a pike to be hanging out in. I reeled in slowly, waiting in anticipation for the violent swirl of the fish pouncing on the rapala. But here’s thing about Northern pike, those bastards are fearless. It’s like they attack the artificial bait, not becuase they want to eat the thing, but because they’re pissed at it. They’re also not afraid to follow the plug all the way back to the boat before striking, and that’s exactly what happened on this particular cast. Just a few feet from the canoe, the fish struck my rapala, viciously pulling my line down into the water. For a moment, I feared my fishing pole would snap in half, but fortunately, I was able to quickly let out just enough slack to keep the pole and line from breaking. And then the fight was on. While I couldn’t see the fish, I just knew whatever was on the other of my line was big. Really big. And there was no doubt about – it was a Northern.
My heart raced with every plunge the beast made to escape, and from the back of the canoe, my dad did his best to coach and calm me down. I knew this had to be the biggest fish I’d ever had on my line, and equal parts adrenaline and fear were coursing through my veins. I just had to catch this fish. And for what was probably only a couple of minutes but for what seemed to last an eternity, this unseen pike and I battled. I could only to hope to wear the fish down enough to eventually bring him to the surface and give my dad a chance to net him. But that chance never happened. The fish made another lunge, this time towards the back of the boat. SHIT – the anchor!!
In all of the chaos of the battle at hand, there was no time to pull up the anchor. I tried my best in that fleeting moment to maneuver the pike back away from the outstretched rope, but it was too late. SNAP. The line went completely limp and just like that, it was all over. Somewhere in the depths of the lake, a giant fish was swimming to safety; the glint of my orange rapala traveling with it until he’d be able to spit it out. And then the tears came. I couldn’t help it – I was devastated. Immediately embarrassed, I tried my best to hide my emotions from my dad, my hands still shaking from the adrenaline.
But my father was very cool about the whole thing. He didn’t tell me to stop crying or scold me for acting like a baby, but rather he shared a tale of the time my grandpa hooked a huge Northern on Alton Lake, so big it seriously wouldn’t fit in the net. That he’d fought it valiantly for not just a few minutes but for at least a half hour, before it too finally snapped the line. My sobs slowly receded and the trembling in my hands at last went away. If it could happen to my grandpa, the greatest fisherman I knew, then I was almost honored to be considered in his company. I now had my own story, which we would be repeated in detail that night to all around the campfire, of the one that got away.
1 comment September 19th, 2009
