Just Nod If You Can Hear Me...

Hello? Did everybody leave already? In case you forgot, my name is eric; and I used to be all about blogging. I still am - no, really - but recent events have conspired to effectively derail my train of so-called thought. The post that has jammed the gears of my creative machinery revolves around the long life and recent death of Kelty my 14-year-old German Shorthair. It’s long and difficult and the right words have been hard to find. I’m workin’ on it. Trapped behind that road-block and doomed to likely never see the light of day are all sorts of semi (psudo?) interesting posts concerning recent events. In the interest of posting something, here’s quick rundown:

After a second place finish last year, my son’s Cub Scout Pinewood Derby car took 1st place at this year’s event. When asked by the Cub Master while accepting his trophy what his secret was, he replied without hesitation, "Loose lips sink ships." The crowd had a good laugh, and I beamed with pride. This also marks the second year that both the first and second place finishers were boys from my den. "Go Den 4!" We also went on our second annual snowshoe expedition in March, and that was a whole lot of fun, too.

My musical pursuits have been going well and have included a performance at this year’s Homegrown Music Festival in Duluth with 4 Horse Johnson, a spot at the first IROMA showcase, two very successful nights in Chisholm MN with Matt Ray and Those Damn Horses, two shared stages with the amazing Ben Durbin’s Modern Antiques, a fun night at The Thirsty Pagan in Superior WI, a rousing half hour at my son’s daycare to celebrate The Week of the Small Child, and an interesting show at the "re" Grand Opening of The Boathouse in Ely MN. As soon as I get to the next blog post, you’ll be able to see a calender of upcoming events by clicking HERE. Also, 4 Horse Johnson’s CD should be done by the 1st week in June; and I plan to send free copies to my "blogging buddies" all over the place: Florida, Israel, Bloomington, The Philippines, Illinois, etc.

In case you’re wondering about the odd food photo, on Monday I will be marking my 1st month as a vegetarian. Aside from 3 eggs for breakfast every Sunday, the tiniest splash of milk on my occasional bowl of Cheerios, small amounts of light mayonnaise in my cole slaw, carefully selected whole grain breads, and (of course) the odd glass of beer; I have eaten nothing but whole foods for the last 4 weeks, and I have never felt better. I run or at least walk 3 miles every night, I have a low-impact but effective exercise routine, and I’ve dropped nearly 25 pounds since December. As a self-proclaimed "temporary voluntarily vegetarian," I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be keeping this up; but I have discovered that - at least in terms of my own physiology - dairy products in any significant quantity are BAD and permanently off the list. I’ve suffered my last pizza-related 3 hour cheese coma.

My annual 5 day solo BWCA canoe trip - thwarted last year by a very late ice-out on area lakes - has been rescheduled due to musical performances; but it’s still on the schedule in the next three weeks. I’m going over gear and packing stuff up today, and once again my wife will be irritated to have to go on the evening walk with a dork-in-training wearing a large blue internal framed back pack. Life is fully of little compromises, isn’t it? ;-)

There is a lot more, but that’s enough for now. I promise to make an effort to be better at updating my blog in the future. I’ve had four separate lovely ladies ask me what’s going on here, and that - for me - is quite a powerful motivator. ;-) Thanks for reading. Peace.

Winter Camping in the Superior National Forest -

On Presidents’ Day Weekend in 1994, my friend and I loaded a few pieces of unsophisticated gear onto a couple of plastic sleds and set off together on our first winter camping trip. We hiked about a mile into the woods to the shore of a pond near 4 Mile Lake south of our hometown and spent 3 days and 2 nights teaching ourselves how to survive outdoors in the wintertime. The snowfall had been unusually heavy that year, and the waist deep snow humorously complicated the trial and error process of learning an exciting new sport. It took nearly two hours of shoveling to clear spots for the tent, kitchen, and campfire; and after two nights spent sleeping in temps below zero, we made it home not only alive but also invigorated and filled with crazy ideas. Since that first adventure, we’ve camped on or around Presidents’ Day for 15 consecutive years; and through expeditions ranging from short solo outings to long 8 man trips, we established what has become one of my favorite annual traditions. Due to supposedly conflicting work schedules – and what I suspect may be the clandestine observation of the worst of all psudo-holidays – we moved this year’s trip ahead one week; and on the morning of Friday February 6th, my old pal Tim and I parked his vehicle at the public landing on Mud Creek and set out once again to test our mettle against the elements. Tim’s cousin Kurt, his sled packed and ready, had been forced to cancel at the last minute due to a medication-related irregular heartbeat experienced on the eve of the trip; but Sam the Drummer, his interest piqued by a positive experience on Slim Lake, still planned to join us later in the day. We hitched up the dogs around 9:00 a.m. and headed east towards Mud Lake and the difficult trail to beautiful Basket Lake.

Mud Lake is a fairly shallow body of water in the Lake Vermilion watershed that contains a good population of fish, attracts a fair number of Northern Pike fishermen, and lies along the state snowmobile trail from Vermilion to Burntside Lake. We came to realize long ago that walking along the track left by a snow machine greatly extended the range of the non-motorized wilderness traveler, and in the right conditions the trip from the landing on the Mud Creek Road up the river to the lake is as easy as walking on pavement. Upon reaching the west end of the Mud Lake, we happened upon a couple of fishermen who reported catching a few 30 inch pike. They marveled at the amount of gear we were hauling and rightly so. Lucy the Lab was pulling my fully loaded 8 foot toboggan, and I was on skis carrying my internal framed backpack. Tim was traveling on foot with Hank the Chesapeake Bay Retriever and Vera the German Wirehaired Pointer pulling his new pulk. My sled weighed around 60 pounds while my pack, filled mostly with sleeping gear, came in at only 30 pounds. Tim’s giant rig easily pushed 120 pounds. The two mile trip from the truck to trail to Basket Lake was easy enough, but a world of suffering lay ahead. The north shore of Mud Lake is dominated by a high Greenstone ridge that gives rise to several spectacular peaks and outcroppings. In an amazing geologic oddity that almost resembles a lake in the crater of a dormant volcano, little Basket Lake sits at the top of that ridge a full 120 feet above Mud Lake. The difficult trail up the ridge had been all but obliterated by the powerful storm of July 4, 1999; but over the course of successive trips, we had managed to pick a new path through the wreckage of what once had been an impressive stand of very old and majestic trees. We made the first trip up the hill with only our backpacks and dogs to scout the area and break a snowshoe trail, and by the time made it back down for our sleds; Sam had arrived with Lanie the Golden Retriever. He’d been kept in the dark about some of the details of our plans and understandably questioned the sanity of dragging heavy loads up a ridge equivalent in height to a 12 story building. After a brief debate with "the new guy," we headed up the trail over and around several inconveniently located blown down trees; and after 75 feet of clawing on hands and knees up the steepest part of the rise in as punishing of a physical ordeal as one would ever care to experience, we reached our campsite on Basket Lake. We had beers, set up camp, gathered fire wood, ate dinner, and sat around a perfect campfire until 11 p.m. I slept from 11 p.m. until 8 a.m. without waking up once.

On Saturday morning after a delicious and filling breakfast comprised of corned beef hash, pop-tarts, and coffee; we prepared for the next stage of our adventure. After carefully loading a backpack and a sled, we set off across the lake and down the north side of the hill for a day of fishing on Tamarack Lake. Tamarack is another small, shallow lake with relatively stained water; but due to its considerable littoral area, it too holds a decent population of fish. In the past we’ve caught a few small walleyes on Tamarack, but we were there with the goal of catching a single member of the lake's considerable population of Northerns to eat with our evening meal. Sam made the regrettable decision to leave a day early, but he was still excited to spend part of the day fishing. Anxious to get going, we’d left him behind at camp packing up his gear; and by the time he made it to the lake, Tim and I had sunk several holes. Partly because of the difficult route down the ridge through thick underbrush, we’d kept poor Sam in the dark about the details of this part of the trip as well – "Just follow our trail!" – and he shuffled up to our fishing spot looking tired and slightly irritated. He cheered up considerably when the start of cocktail hour was declared - Sam drank Windsor and Coke, Tim swilled Hamm’s Beer (ish!), and I sipped at a Nalgene bottle containing half a gallon of vodka and cranberry – and then the fish went on an extended "bite." Within only 20 minutes of Sam’s arrival, the first tip-up flag went up, and Tim expertly brought a feisty 5 pound Northern to the ice. I generally practice catch and release fishing with just a few exceptions, and the February camping trip is one of those occasions. We quickly filleted the fish, stored it in a zip-lock bag, and tucked it away in a pack. Just an hour after leaving camp, we had achieved our goal; and over the course of the rest of the morning and afternoon, we caught and released several more fish in the 5 pound range. Sam caught a good-sized fish on a tip-up and actually iced another nice one while jigging, and he and Lanie headed out around 3:00 p.m. while Tim and I fished until 5:00. Tim posted a decent video HERE of me catching a nice Northern. Actually, he posted all sorts of interesting videos on his YouTube page located HERE. It was a good day; heck, even Hank caught a few fish. ;-)

Immediately upon arriving back at camp, we stoked the fire and started dinner. The evening meal on Saturday has always been the big feast of our winter trips, and that evening was no exception. We enjoyed fried Northern fillets, vacuum packed Hamburger helper, duck sausage, Pringle’s, and beer. It was a substantial meal that would serve as fuel for the hike out the next day. As we enjoyed drinks and chatted around another perfect fire, the hazy overcast cleared and a nearly full moon crept over the tree line. The moon was so bright that we were able to see all the way down the lake, and soon the constellation Orion moved into the clearing in the trees to the south of our camp. The wind died to nothing, the planet Venus appeared over horizon to the west looking as big as I’d ever seen, and some barely audible wolves howled in the distance. Then, in the still air of that warm winter night, the deep and eerie call of a lone Barred Owl echoed through the forest. "Who Cooks For You?" it asked repeatedly. I answered that question quietly to myself and, for just a moment, felt very much a peace with the universe. Wow... Full, happy, and tired; we turned in around 10 p.m. and hardly stirred until 8:00 a.m. On Sunday morning we packed up our gear, policed the area for every last scrap of refuse (Leave No Trace!), descended the hill, and hiked back to Tim’s truck without encountering a single snowmachine. Mission accomplished.

In 2001 Tim and I along with 6 other guys camped on Basket Lake for 3 nights in what turned out to be our best ever winter camping trip, but it’s my opinion that last weekend’s adventure was a close second. The weather was perfect, the fishing was good, and the company was great. Also, I never sleep better than when I’m bundled up in a warm bag in a cold tent in the winter, and the two nights I spent outside last weekend had considerable therapeutic value. Many avid outdoorspeople would never even attempt to camp in the winter, and that’s too bad because along with the daunting challenge created by the frozen environment comes the increased sense of satisfaction at the end of a successful trip. I'm thankful to have made two trips this season, and I look forward to two (or more) next year. Thanks for reading! Peace.

Winter Camping on Slim Lake in the BWCA -

In a project that I suspect may have been some sort of Holiday-related procrastination, my old friend and long-time winter camping partner spent some time in his garage building a new toboggan out of scrap lumber and HDPE. Pleased with his results and anxious to field test the new sled, he called me up and suggested a quick overnight trip; and having long regarded him as permanently lost to the world of snowmobiling, I jumped at the chance to spend a night in the woods next to a campfire. Despite being a repeated victim of the ill-planned trips of my youth - he's the guy who came up with the phrase "eric's wacko adventures" - he left the planning up to me, and I went straight to work. My original plan was to set out from the public landing on Fall Lake and travel up to Newton Lake for a day of fishing and camping. In an unusual turn of events, we issued the customary invitations to a number of our friends expecting no takers; and to our surprise a couple of them actually agreed to come along including a seasoned veteran and a "newbie" who'd never camped in the snow. Knowing that there were nearly 16 inches of snow in the woods and certain that the lakes would be covered with deep slush, I decided to take it easy on the new guy and switched our destination to Slim Lake. In the mist of an unseasonably warm and very overcast December morning, we made the drive to Ely, stopped at Piragis for a couple overpriced items, and headed for Entry Point 6 off the Echo Trail.

At the entry point we were asked some unusual questions by a fellow in a SUV with Illinois plates; and anxious to hit the portage, we hurriedly readied our equipment. My former neighbor the Ely native has often questioned why I would even bother to ice fish for walleyes on Slim Lake, and he did so again on the eve of this trip saying basically that "there are no fish in that lake." My own experiences combined with other anecdotal evidence suggest that he may not be too far off base, but I'm not a person who could ever camp next to a lake without wetting a line. With the added weight of a 7 inch auger, 3 rods and reels, 4 tip-ups, and 5 dozen minnows; my sled started up the hill behind a very happy Lucy the Lab. Vera the GWP pup had her pulling harness on as well but wouldn't be tested until later. Wearing snowshoes for the first time in his life, the new guy was given the honor of breaking trail for the first part of the trip; and he made it three quarters of the way in before we noticed that he had become quite sweaty and advised him to take a break. As predicted, we found Slim Lake covered in heavy slush. As we left the portage bay and turned south, the slush got even deeper: and as we passed the small island just off the eastern shore, there was a full 8 inches of water on top of the ice. Despite the 32 degree air temperature, ice was still collecting on our snowshoes; and the short jaunt down the lake to a likely-looking spot on the western shore provided as much of a "slush shoeing" experience as I'd ever care to have. We each "enjoyed" a Schell beer from a plastic bottle and got busy setting up camp.

My winter camping partner always insists upon sleeping in some sort of crazy snow cave or improvised tarp shelter, and he busily constructed yet another blue plastic bivouac while I supervised the new guy as he shoveled out a spot for my 3 season dome tent. After those tasks were completed, I dealt with the minnows and set some tip-ups; and then we started to gather fire wood. Having selected a camp site well away from the USFS designated sites on the lake, wood was relatively easy to come by; and after two hours of very hard work, we'd put up nearly 2 nights worth of wood. We had another Schell to celebrate a job well done just as our 4th companion came skijoring up behind two impressive English Setters. Trapper is an experienced outdoorsman, an occasional contributor to the Boundary Waters Journal, and the best damn harp player in the northern part of the state; and we were all very happy that he made the trip in to join us. As Trapper started to set up his tent, I noticed that one of the tip-up flags was up; and I raced out to find a fish slowly and steadily peeling line off the spool. I set the hook only to be met with the dead weight of a larger fish, and after a couple second of pulling line hand-over-hand, I felt a heart breaking snap - it was all over. I have two tip-ups that are fairly well maintained and accompany me on every ice fishing trip, and I have 4 or 5 more that sit in a bucket in the corner of the garage. This particular unit was one of those bucket dwellers and was sporting a 6 pound monofilament leader probably from the last century. The leader was just slightly brittle and had broken at the point where a split shot sinker had been affixed - amateur hour. Despite immediately loading my sled and heading out on the lake to fish, that was the only bite that I had over the course of 5 hours of fishing in 15 different holes. That's my second dismal Slim Lake fishing report in two years, and there may be a lesson or two hidden in those words.

Just after dark, I looked across the lake to see the inviting flicker of a campfire; and chilled from fishing out in the wind - and standing wearing snowshoes the whole time because of the slush - I headed back to camp to warm up and relax. Now, some of the cardinal rules of winter camping are stay hydrated, pay close attention to you caloric intake, and do not consume alcoholic beverages. Well, it had been sort of a weird day. In my haste to get to the lake, set up camp, and go fishing; I hadn't taken the time to drink enough fluids or really even eat anything. The guys at camp had all gotten to chatting, and by the time I returned from fishing; no one was particularly hungry. That was too bad because we traditionally enjoy an elaborate hot meal just after dark. Beyond that, camping with the guys from the band had me feeling fairly festive. Omitting the details, I'll say only that the bourbon that I drank before bed, partially because I was physically drained, dehydrated, and underfed; took me very much by surprise and created what could have been a dangerous situation. In short, the rules for safe winter camping apply to everyone regardless of experience or ability.

Courteously awakened the next morning at the crack of 9:30 by an electronic predator call with dying batteries - someone's idea of humor - I forced my feet into frozen boots, had a cup of fairly nasty coffee, and started to break camp. The heavy overcast of the previous day had given way to a clear blue sky, and shimmering ice crystals floated through the air. After an overly long conversation with the new guy about how to manage nature's call in the middle of a winter night from a tent, we had some pop-tarts and loaded our sleds. On the walk out, we found that our tracks through the slush had frozen solid and provided an easy if not somewhat slippery trail. A short video from that walk can be found here. Back at the parking area, we encountered an ice fisherman coming off the North Arm of Burntside who had caught and released two Lake Trout. One was around 5 pounds and the other close to 30 - amazing! We said goodbye to Trapper; and on the drive home, after a lengthy debate, we decided to stop at the Tower Café for a late breakfast - it was a good decision and highly recommended. As if that wasn't enough adventure for one weekend, we all met again that evening in the studio at Sparta Sound to resume work on Four Horse Johnson's upcoming CD. Here are some other interesting tidbits learned before, during, and after the trip both from talking to and observing my partners and other folks:

- The boat landing on Fenske Lake was not plowed out this year. Fenske Lake, interestingly enough, contains BOTH Ciscos AND the freshwater herring known as Mooneyes.

- Campmor and planning ahead = $. Piragis and having no other option = $$$$

- Cotton KILLS. Leave ALL of your cotton clothing items at home and ALWAYS dress in layers.

- The 5 minutes that it takes to put fresh line on a piece of fishing equipment is ALWAYS time well spent. :-(

- Around 2 p.m. on Saturday; a guy skied out onto the lake from the North Arm trailhead, went right out into the heart of the slush, stopped with a look of mild horror on his face, and turned around to leave the lake. I fear that his feet got wet, and his bad experience highlights the importance of wearing waterproof footwear and being otherwise able to adapt to adverse winter conditions.

- Though by no means an arctic expedition, a quick trip to Slim Lake is a great way to get an inexperienced person acquainted with winter camping. Sam the Drummer is now anxiously looking forward to his next trip, and hopefully that won't be too far off.

Thanks for reading!

Duck Hunting on Lake of the Woods in 2008 -

In early October, I decided not to document each individual trip of this year's duck season. Though very rewarding and a whole lot of fun, this season was very similar to last year; and detailed reports of all those trip can be found by clicking on the duck hunting archive link to the right. Besides, this year was characterized by fewer scrapes with death and far fewer ducks than last year, and a lengthy retelling of the duck season of 2008 would border on anticlimax. I don't want of leave you hangin', so here are some of the photos with which I returned home:

The crew on the sand bar on the southern side of Bigsby Island looking out into Deep Bay for ducks -



The Arkansas 3 being readied at the dock -



Here is a good example of one of the treacherous channels on Lake of the Woods. The many rocks in this pass are covered with paint and aluminum, and the bottom is littered with the broken blades from the props of the unfortunate. Also, it's rumored that a tribe of feral Iowans and Twin Citians - marooned by serious navigational errors - inhabit the forest around the narrows ;-) -



Here's a shot of Lucy looking for ducks. On that particular morning, Buffleheads and Goldeneyes were the only species of waterfowl observed, and no self-respecting duck hunter would ever shoot a Bufflehead or Goldeneye -



Here's one of me at the start of the long hike referenced in my earlier post about a close call with heat exhaustion. We actually had ducks (and geese) for dinner that night -

Here is a shot that I took while doing a bit of "armed beach combing" with Lucy -

This photo shows the Arkansas 4 - minus the canoe rack - up on step and heading north -

Sitting out in the elements all day and seeing few if any ducks can drive a person to some unusual behavior. I took this photo of "Clams on a Wind-Swept Sandbar" during just such an a episode -

My tough little dog works very hard in the fall. Here she is using a log for a pillow on a rainy day. The high temp. that afternoon was barely 40 degrees -

This was the leading edge of a strong frontal system that was supposed to push a large number of ducks down from the north. It didn't -

Here's one of Lucy fetching up a nice Mallard -

On October 30th, a violent storm passed just a few miles north of our position. We witnessed snow, sleet, rain, cloud-to-ground lightning, and even a small funnel cloud. We stayed put because the Ringbills were flying our way -

This photo shows my jon boat in action as it ferried two of my partners off into the rice. Bill will tell you why my partner is f'n with the 4 horse -

This was the view across vast Miles Bay on a rainy morning. At the end of a mostly fruitless "long putt" searching for ducks, my partner and I drifted across the bay from Mink Portage and had a nice long nap as the rain drops fell -

With my marine radio on and tuned to the emergency channel and my life jacket cinched as tight as it would go, we rounded Black Point into some of the largest waves I've ever encountered. It was a wild ride that ended on the leeward side of a sandy point -

Here's a shot of Marley - the leader of the duck dogs - fetching a Ringbill out of cold water -

A bit of nasty weather -

Lucy watching the skies on Drennan Point -



The Sun setting over Big Traverse Bay -

So, there you go - another season put away. Feel free to post any questions, comments, or criticisms. I'd love to hear from you. Also, all of these images are copyrighted; but if you'd like to use one, you need only ask. ;-)

Channel clear.

Duck Hunting: Cause and Effect Captured on Video -

Following typical November patterns, Northern Minnesota has experienced several consecutive nights of low temperatures in the mid 20ies. These cold nights have had the effect of freezing all the shallow "ducky" backwaters, and as a result the majority of ducks hanging around the area have been encouraged to resume their southward journeys. With most of my favorite hunting spots iced over, I'd been thinking about putting away my gear and pulling the plug on another season. The problem with that is that I live within a couple hundred yards of Lake Esquagama - a medium sized residential lake - and every night just around sunset a good number of ducks - one small flock at a time - fly the exact same course from (I believe) a local taconite mine tailings basin to spend the night in a large raft on the lake. Talk about tempting an addict:



The effect of watching these ducks fly around my house for several nights in a row spurred some serious scheming, and I concocted a plan to sneak away from work at 11:00 a.m. on Friday and head way north to the Vermilion River in search of some of our area's last remaining ducks. At the end of an 85 mile drive -10 miles of which involved treacherous one-lane dirt roads - I was relieved to find the feeder creek to the river mostly free of ice. I took a big gamble that the creek would be open - my plans could have been foiled right there. After 5 miles in the old jon boat, I jumped a flock of 40 or so giant Canadian Mallards on a bend in the river and decided to set up right there. As on every outing, I took a quick video to document the weather, my location, and decoy spread. Yes, I look very old and worn down in this video - keep in mind that it was 30 degrees with strong winds and snow, and being alone so far from safety with the possibility of being shot at by a careless deer hunter is just a little bit stressful. Anyway, if you want to see good "outdoors alone" footage, watch Survivorman. ;-)



All told, I had four flocks of 20 or so ducks fly by; but whatever they were looking for, it wasn't me. Yes, I removed my hat long before the ducks got anywhere near my location. Duh! Despite leaving the river emptyhanded, I'm still glad to have made the trip. Had I stayed at work instead, I would have spent the rest of the year wondering what I'd missed. I sat out until sunset, pack up in the twilight, and made the trip back to the landing in the dark; and half of my drive home took place in a violent if not limited snowstorm. It was 20 degrees here last night and it's supposed to get down to 12 tonight. Despite those lows, I'm still heading out at 2:00 a.m. tomorrow to a large lake in the hope of finding one last duck. Just one more, and then I'll quit...

Thanks for reading. Peace.