THE LAND NORTH OF SUPERIOR

 <o:p></o:p>

The lazy summer days spent at the creek side or the lakeshore seem to short.  Up early at dawn for morning coffee and the smell of bacon and eggs over the wood fire.  We slip quietly from shore and use the most modern of methods to entice the underwater citizens to our table.  There are and always will be more primal creatures who live in the land north of Superior.

 <o:p></o:p>

The morning had been picture post card perfect.  Without a breath of wind the deep river was a mirror.  Curls of weightless fog shifted by unseen hands allowed a moving slide show of the far shore.  The dampness of the fog was enough to pull on a quilted jacket, but not enough to do up the snaps in front.  Just a tiny splash of brandy found it’s way into my coffee mug as I listened to bacon sizzle and splatter in the cast fry on the fire.  The burning wood, invaded by the damp, didn’t produce the intense heat it would that night after the day’s heat.

 <o:p></o:p>

The dogs already for the day after a couple strips of bacon and a drink of river water came into the boat after me.  My wife, a constant outdoors and life companion, gently eased us away from the bank  On the second pull, as always, the 20 hp fired up and almost immediately was pissing water from the cooling jacket exhaust hole.  A quick run to our hole of choice that morning wasn’t possible with the thicket blank of fog.  We cruised up the river, at less than ½ throttle, the dogs and my wife keeping a true eye on the river surface for logs floating down.  As we came to a juncture in the river I veered right, being careful to stay a good ten feet from the bank.  I had already cut my speed down; as there was a good chance another boat might be anchored at the ‘Y�?of the river. 

 <o:p></o:p>

There were two, one a long time acquaintance, waved a welcome that faded to white in the fog.  Care had to be used, as the river channel here wasn’t wide, and very twisted under the placid cover of black.  A last narrow neck and we were in a larger pool of water.  The far end couldn’t be seen for the white curtain all around.  With familiarity I hung the depth finder bracket from the transom and gently pushed the touch tone mark for on.  The screen flared to life showing the deepening bottom, littered with beaver food and rotted tree trunks, the bottom started to shelve up from 20 feet.  With a quiet word my wife got ready with the anchor and without a splash let it free fall to the bottom.  Two half hitches and we swung gently around once I’d cut the engine.

 <o:p></o:p>

Missy and Major, long time fisher dogs knew the drill and settled down on their chosen spots on the boat benches, Major made sure he was the closest to me.  Two minnows latter the bait bucket went over the side into the still winter cool water.  Almost instantly I was called into service as the net man for a beautiful 2 pound pickeral.  My wife was all smiles, she had beaten me to ‘first fish�?all three mornings now, my excuse of course being the extra work of being captain, navigator, equipment manager, dog watcher and hook baiter held no water in her book.  In short order I boated four perch of the 10 inch class, well worth keeping for the table.  Only perch beats the walleye when it comes to fine eating in the land north of Superior.

 <o:p></o:p>

At first all I felt was a slight bump, maybe a small mostly submerged log had brushed the side of the boat.  I dismissed it.  The violent tearing at the stringer on the side of the boat could not be dismissed.  Reaching over quickly I tried to lift the stringer, with 6 perch and 4 walleye on it out of the water.  It weighed a totally unreasonable amount!    I pulled harder and it slowly lifted.  As the stringer cleared the glossy black surface of the water I saw a huge head and there were at least two of the perch crushed in the massive jaws.  The pike well over the magic 20 pound mark wasn’t about to surrender his breakfast.  I reached over with the other hand to help lift our stringer and it’s passenger.  In slow motion I watched the lower jaws of the perch split, one first the other quicker, under the weight of the killer.  Only instinct saved me from going overboard backwards as the monster pike, and his breakfast fell into the dark water.

 <o:p></o:p>

Several times that morning we nervously checked the stringer at the least movement of the boat.  We didn’t loose any more fish from our catch.  The sun had burned off the fog when we headed back to camp under planning throttle.  On shore the dogs were into the river as a defence against the already warming up day.  My job also included cleaning and cooking of our quarry, of course that cut no mustard with my wife either.  In fairness she did keep those pesky skeeters away from me and the cleaned fillets of perch and pickeral.

 <o:p></o:p>

An hour later, a plate of golden brown fillets with equally brown potatoe slices in hand, we reflected on the raw forces that still controlled the sky, water and land north of Superior.