THE LAND NORTH OF SUPERIOR<o:p></o:p>

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It had been several years since I had come to this once popular pickeral lake.  The previous fall on a partridge hunting trip we had popped in and found only one lonely trailer on a shoreline that was normally accessible by shoehorn only.  We planned then and there to add this pretty lake as one of our destinations in the land north of superior.

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The following year we did our normal things as the spring turned into summer and it wasn’t till August that we talked of that little pickeral lake.  We decided to change our plans and go at least look how crowded the lake would be.  We could always go to any of a dozen other lakes if we found too many campers there.  Campers meant that Ace would have to be tied and that wouldn’t be much of a holiday for him.

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The lake when we got to it at three on Friday afternoon was deserted.  A cheer went up from all.  We set the camper up by a small creek exiting the lake.  There was a fire pit already set up and the creek provided a safe harbour for our two boats, I remembered the lake as being rather wild with a west wind.  The boats went to go into the water first as there was one on top of the folded down hardtop.  Then the trailer was backed up, unhooked and blocked on all four corners.  As the four of us went about well practiced chores Ace verified his ownership of the area, very content to roam without a chain on his collar.  The camper was cranked up; the cook table was set up out side.  As the beds were being set up inside a 12 X 14 tarp was set up to cover the front side of the camper and the cook table.  Soon a coffee pot was perking merrily and the rush of chores turned to the excitement of checking out a new area.  Even I could feel adventurous, it was six years since I had last visited this lake.

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A campfire has always been the order of the day as far as my wife is concerned and there was no denying her that.  Well into the clear, cool evening we sat around joking, eating the worlds best cooked wieners and the marshmallows that never seemed to end on our trips.  The pillows had no chance to warm up before everyone was fast asleep, gathering rest for what ever tomorrow would bring.  During the night it rained, a steady rain that tap, tapped me back to slumber land.  The morning was still damp and cool so we had breakfast first, waiting for the sun to dry things up and drive away the damp

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Ace and our eldest boy were in our 14 foot with me when we left shore at 4 in the afternoon.  The smaller boat would be piloted by our youngest son and my wife would serve as first mate and damper of youthful energies.  This was in the days before our family went electronic so a lot of time was spent watching the shoreline and trying to maintain contact with the bottom without getting stuck.  On our side of the lake we did well, boating a half dozen eating pickeral and a bunch of good jumbo perch.  It was still early when we noticed the small boat cut across the lake heading for us.  A rather quite wife and son said they were heading back to camp.  They had five pickeral on their stringer so we decided to head back.  The fish fry was just what a guy needs when to build memories for a long cold northern winter.  The campfire was again lit.

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“What do you know about Big Foot?�?SPAN>  The question addressed to me came from the young fellow.  The ledged of Big Foot, or the Sasquatch in Canada, was well known to everyone from a trip to B.C. a couple of years earlier.  “I thought they were only in B.C.�?/P>

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“You mean you saw one, when, where,�?a pause as I looked at him, “you’re not telling me you saw a Sasquatch here/�?/P>

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“Well, not exactly.�?SPAN>  He was trying to organize his thoughts.  As the youngest he could also show no fear, especially when he had been the one captaining the boat his mother was in.  The story came out slowly as he told of going behind an island, where they caught all their fish.  As they trolled closure to the island he said he got the weirdest feeling of being watched.  Then they had hooked a pickeral and while the boat was stopped to net the fish the boat drifted closer to the island.   He said that he could hardly concentrate on netting Mom’s pickeral.  He started the out board up and moved away from the island, once he felt comfortable he put the fish on the stringer.  A second pass was made to try and catch another of the nice year class of pickeral they had just caught.  As they came closer to the island both Mother and son heard crashing noises from the bush covered island.  They decided that there were enough fish and came to tell me they were returning to shore.

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I looked at my wife, “I heard the crashing and there was something strange about that place.  It didn’t feel good!�?/P>

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I chuckled and our oldest did his best to pass it off too, but he failed by some margin after the tale just told.  Some talk and more than one glance toward the offending island told me the subject wasn’t done with.  In the morning, it was casually suggested by my wife that my boat should fish the shoreline to and around the island of last night’s discussions.  Our boat failed to draw out any more strange noises or feelings even though we ended up fishing that side of the lake for the rest of the week of our vacation.  By Saturday the topics of choice were bicycles and electronic games and what was showing on TV.  As we left the lake early Sunday afternoon I was fairly positive all three of them took at least one pondering glance at that island to the right.  I forgot all about the incident.

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I was in the local library in the middle of the following winter.  Research on sturgeon had brought me here, but it was a book Big Foot, real or tall tale that caught my eye.  The slim dark brown volume talked of several ‘mythical creatures�?but I turned to the section on Sasquatch.  I scanned several pages until my eyes stuck on a lake name.  I shock my head and read slowly. The lake we had visited was listed as being a sighting point for just this Sasquatch fellow I had down played last August.  References in the book pin pointed that lake as the only possible location a Sasquatch had been sighted in Ontario.  I went home with a funny feeling.

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We had all forgoten about that happening years ago, until watching TV, a monster truck named Big Foot, had brought the story to mind.  What ever had caused those feeling of fear and being watched from my wife and youngest son I guess we’ll never know.  But the possibilities of what one may encounter in the land north of Superior I now view with a different light.