Suprise 80th birthday

On 22 October TheLegend will turn 80 years old. Due to the logistics of getting people here from all over the planet, the surprise party was held yesterday. Partiers from such far reaching spots as Dolores, CO, Mobile, AL, Atlanta, GA, Indiana, and even St Petersburg, Russia gathered at the deer camp to eat, drink, make merry, and toast 8 decades of a life that's been interesting to say the least. In an appropriate 'circle of life', TheLegend was born on the same 40 acres that the camp is on. Also as one might expect with this group, it was not the usual birthday party.

First of all, the normal 80th birthday party is not held at a hunting camp in the woods. Restaurant, church basement, open house at someones home perhaps, but for a guy who has spent his life in the woods hunting, skiing, farming Christmas trees, making firewood, and generally puttering around, this seemed very appropriate. For that very reason the theme of the party was lumberjacks. The red and black plaid was out in full force. Rather than a catered affair, everyone brought food. Nipper and TheMayor made fry bread and yours truly made two big dutch ovens of 'Ojibwa stew', a venison and wild rice based concoction that sticks to your ribs for sure. A beer or two was also hauled into camp. For a guy that suffered a week with Presidente, Medalla Light, and the occasional Heineken or Corona, this feast of microbrewed beer was a sight for sore eyes and just what the doctor ordered for my dormant beer palate. At least four different Octoberfest brews were in the cooler, which added to the fall theme. A great birthday cake was made with trees, a woodpile, and two lumberjacks cutting wood; it would have been a shame to stick 80 candles in it so we didn't. The FunnyWoodMan found an eight foot long log, drilled 80 holes in it, and the VOR inserted 80 candles, 10" tapers not tiny birthday candles. The log was then lit and carried out by a half dozen 'log bearers' and presented to The Legend in front of the camp's porch. About that time a dog fight broke out among a couple of the eight or so canine guests that were in attendance, so the situation was normal. Surprisingly, Rookie the Wonder Dog was neither a participant or instigator, probably because he was busy 'guarding' the buffet table and waiting for his chance. Happy birthday was sung and two original numbers, new lyrics for the Beverly Hillbillies theme song, and Monty Python's Lumberjack Song were performed. Once again some technical issues with the CD player and another dog fight marred the perfection of the event but no one seemed to mind. The sun went down, the moon came up, and people drifted off towards home, reveling in the perfect fall day.

And it was perfect. The weather cooperated nicely, fall colors were at their peak, and the turnout was excellent. The surprise aspect was pulled off nicely and everyone had a great time. The VOR and TheMayor orchestrated the thing nicely and everyone pitched in to make it a real team effort. As I wrote on the 'log cookie', a 16" segment of tree trunk that served as the birthday card, "Great stuff. Count me in for the 90th".

The Island of Enchantment

I will be in Puerto Rico most of the week on business and I already miss the fall air and ambiance of the north country. My colleagues all give me grief and say, "Oooooh, poor boy! You have to go and suffer those white sand beaches, lush greenery, and summer temps". They all know of course, that I despise hot weather (its been 90F, 33C, every day) and feel the only thing a beach is good for is to surf your kayak on to. That being said, the people I call on are wonderful, the food is great, the hospitality excellent, and I used to be able to bring my kayak along.

As regular readers know I hate to fly and look upon the airlines and their toadies, the TSA, as an obstacle rather than a conduit for travel. Before I sold it this summer, I would take the trusty Feathercraft on this trip and paddle on various locations around the islands. One memorable trip involved paddling out to a string of islands off Fajardo called La Cordillera with a six pack of Medalla beer and a dozen shrimp so big that I could have clubbed an attacker with them had they been frozen. I brought a small quantity of Marchlight charcoal, made a small fire on the beach, and gorged on shrimp and beer. The next day I paddled into one of the famous bioluminescent bays, where the plankton light up when they are disturbed. When a paddle or hand went through the water, they would light up like the pixie dust on the end of Tinkerbelle's wand at the start of the old Wonderful World of Disney TV show. For a moment I wistfully thought of the old days when the experience would have been enhanced by a couple tokes from a magical herb but quickly realized that it was plenty cool enough in my nominal condition. Those days have ended however due to the incredible hassle and expense it takes to move a folding boat by air these days.

When a paddle, pfd, and other essentials are added to the Big Kahuna bag, it weights about 54#(25k). This puts it in the heavy, oversized baggage category. This means you have to pay extra for it, actually extra, extra these days since just checking a regular bag now can run $15. Its weight makes it a bit of a challenge for the baggage guys also, to see how far they can throw it. I actually watched two of them in Detroit grab each end and pitch it halfway up the conveyer, an impressive feat of strength had I not been concerned with the aluminum frame tubes being bent. I also began carrying pictures of it assembled and disassembled. This was after a woman from the TSA opened it for inspection and was certain that those same frame tubes and connectors were surely fuel rods for the core of an Al Queda nuclear reactor. I made the flight but the kayak didn't.

I finally gave up. I normally tend to just push back harder when stuff like this occurs but a combination of events detoured me from that path. My eco friendly former co worker, Ms ZFI, wanted a folding boat to carry in her Toyota Pious to avoid a roof rack and itsw reduction in gas mileage. I'd been test paddling a Q boat and had developed a yearning for its racy lines, narrow low volume profile, and rolling ease. It was the perfect storm of kayak interchange and I succumbed. As I sit here in Puerto Rico however, I remember the fun I had with the Feathercraft and briny smell of the ocean. I was still able to get that saltwater smell though; I just had to walk away from the roulette wheel and out on to the hotel patio to get it.

A satisfying Saturday

Yesterday was an excellent fall day in Minnesota. The weather was perfect with 60F(16C) temps, brilliant sun, dry air, and a light breeze. The leaves are in the midst of turning and the red maples, orange oak, and yellow aspen made the woods a very colorful place. TheLegend, myself, and Rookie the Wonder Dog headed up to the camp early while the women meandered around Mora looking for valuable and necessary treasures in area shops. The plan was to attempt to shoot a grouse but given the Rook's lack of any bird dog genetics, training, or focus of any kind, I was perfectly happy to settle for a nice walk in the woods. Some venison sausage and beer was in the cooler and the dutch oven was prepared to whip up some stew over the campfire. The other mission that needed to be taken care of was to carry out the execution of my useless Palm Treo cell phone.

I won't go into the crimes against humanity that this worthless piece of electronics had perpetrated since I already did that in another post. I also decided that executing it with a .45 Colt would be overkill so I switched to a .22 auto. I don't think of this as an anti technology Luddite type of action but more of a rotten individual getting its due. I would argue, like death penalty advocates, that the recidivism rate of this particular cell phone will be 0.00%; it will never freeze up, drop a call, or fail to record a voice mail message again. It's disturbing video but I think most of the readers of this blog can handle it. I'm still basking in a satisfied glow every time I hit replay.

Campsite of the year

Since the chance of me spending any more time in a tent this year is limited I am prepared to award the first annual Campsite of the Year award. This years award goes to Candle Rock (not its real name!) in the Crane Lake region of Voyageurs National Park.

Several criteria are considered when the various campsites are considered. A key one is convenience. Ease of landing and unloading a kayak, a tent pad, the presence of a picnic table, bear box, and toilet facilities are important. Like real estate, location, location, location is important also. It needs to be in a spot that can be sheltered from the prevailing winds yet is windy enough to make it miserable for flying insects, has shade trees that can be used to rig the 'bat cave', and features a nice sunset view. Sunrises are lost on the majority of the nocturnal creatures I paddle with. Lastly it needs to have remarkable scenic beauty.

Candle Rock edged out the top secret Rocky Island wilderness site in the Apostles. Although the sunset view of Devils Island was unbelievable, the creature comforts were lacking and I was forced to deduct points. The whole bear bag thing is a pain in the butt and heading into the woods with a roll of toilet paper and a small shovel is not the most gratifying trip a person can take in the morning. I'm a guy who travels with a folding chair and a dutch oven in his boat; while I'll certainly do a wilderness site its not the first choice. Candle Rock on the other hand had two picnic tables, an open air outhouse, double bear boxes, and nice white pines for shade. It was also on a peninsula which meant that if the sun/wind situation on one side wasn't good, folks could just stroll the 40 yards to the other side for a different environment. It had a nice landing spot, albeit rocky, where the boats could easily be lifted onto a grassy area and unloaded. The camp was perched on top of a gigantic rock outcropping and looked out over a small bay and then up into the lake. The leaves were changing color, mixed with the dark greens of the boreal forest and the sunset was lovely. The majority female component of our trip brought candles and the wind cooperated for a lovely candle lit night on the rock. The weather was 'changeable' to use the euphemistic term for fall in the border country but it was plenty good as was our gear to deal with the changeability. But enough writing; a picture(s) as they say is worth a thousand words. Enjoy this tiny glimpse of Voyageurs.

Rollin' with the punches

Our five member kayak crew just returned from DLW II (Damn Long Weekend, Year 2) at Voyageurs National Park. This time of year the weather can do anything it wants to up on the Canadian border and this time it certainly did. We spent one day basking on our own little piece of the Canadian Shield, some of the oldest rocks in the world, in shorts and tank tops. The very next day we were all checking to see if we had just one more layer in a dry bag somewhere. Paddlers need to roll with the punches in regard to changing fall weather. They also need to do the same sometimes when it comes to portages.

As many of you know, portaging a kayak, especially a loaded kayak, is a very bad idea indeed. I won't go into all the things that are so very wrong with the kayak portage concept but suffice to say I only paddle in areas where there is big water and no chance of having to unload, carry, and reload my boat more than once a day. Therefore it was with some amazement that I found myself trudging up a 40 rod portage trail last Sunday with a Valley Aquanaut in my left hand and a Valley Q boat in my right. I'm still trying to figure out how this came about but I'm inclined to blame faulty group dynamics and peer group pressure.

There were five people in our group which, had it been a democratic election, precluded a tie. I'm not dead certain how we moved from paddling to the beast of burden mode but I'm leaning toward placing the blame squarely on BjornDahlieOfMahtomedi. He and the IrishPirate had procured and roasted some cacao nuts and had been eating them all day. It reminded me of the stories of South American natives chewing cocoa leaves to stay awake longer and mask fatigue. Their euphoric, drug assisted attitude persuaded me that lugging the unloaded boats would be a walk in the park and when the VoiceOfReason and BessemerConvivialist paddled up it was kind of a done deal. I guess I figured what the heck, its only 40 rods. A rod, for those who don't know, is 16.5 feet, almost exactly 5 meters. One thought on why this archaic measurement has been maintained to measure canoe portages is because its about the same as a canoe length. Bjorn and I picked up the boats and headed up the trail. The women would start the other three boats up the trail and we would come back to help and report on short length and ease of the trail. When we got to the other end of the portage however, I looked out at the scene and thought, "We are soooo screwed!". Instead of a nice beach that came right up to the trail there was 100 yards of cattail swamp before hitting open water. I knew from duck hunting experiences that this would be a stinking, boot sucking, slow, and torturous slog if it was even possible. A quick scout confirmed beaver trails (you plop down an extra foot deep in the water when you encounter them), muck, and a treacherous floating bog area, densely matted grasses and muck with water underneath. It feels like when you were a kid walking or jumping on your bed, nice and springy, except if a foot goes through a person is crotch deep and getting back out becomes very problematic. There would be no paddling here and, being a coward at heart, I suggested that Bjorn head back to break the 'good news' to the ladies. Apparently they had just crested the highest point of the portage and were not amused. It seems that this 'portage' was really a snowmobile trail and that the swamp is no problem when it's frozen solid.

It was a slow and quiet trudge back. I calculated later that this portage, had it been successful, would have cut off a whopping 2.5 miles of paddling, roughly 40 minutes at a leisurely pace. Since that was about what it took to lug the boats 400 meters it would have been kind of at a push unless you factored in the sore shoulders, hyperextended arms, and surly paddling companions that resulted from this unwelcome hike. The BC was particularly ornery but got over it like the rest of us when we returned to camp and its supply of relaxing adult beverages and ibuprofen. I make it a point to never say never but I'm thinking that my kayak portaging experiences may have ended on Sand Point Lake last Sunday. I am sure my companions would agree.