Returning with the Gas Barge - or - Lessons in Inertia

When last we reminisced on Gohere Bay, I had dropped the gas barge at the Government Dock.  I was soaked from rain and water sloshing between the two boats when I arrived back at camp to taunts of "what took so long?" and "whatcha do, fall in again? Didja swim all the way back?" etc.

The stew I had been so looking forward to was cold and had developed that whitish congealed film that beefy type things get when left to sit too long.  It also had developed a skin strong enough to resist the serving spoon and the carrots were mushier than the gravy.  How about a grilled cheese sandwich instead???

Back in the cabin, I pondered the injustice of developing sunburn during a rainstorm before drifting off to sleep.

KABOOOOMMM!!!  The explosion echoed through the early morning mist of Gohere Bay.  KABOOOOMMM!!!  Another fired off as I tumbled out of bed and crawled to the window.  Outside stood Willard with a 30-06, lining up another shot.  I covered my ears just in time to dull the third shot, threw on a shirt and headed out into the chill.

"Well look who's up.." laughed Brad.  Willard chambered a round, pointing at a piece of driftwood thirty yards or so off the front of the island bobbing lazily in the water, and handed me the gun.  Now for those who have lost track, at the time I was a skinny kid and the last firearm I handled was a .22 target pistol and that had been a while.  I cuddled up to the stock of the rifle and gently squeezed the trigger.  A puff of smoke, a serious boom and a splash about a hundred yards out.  Brad and Willard roared. 

"How's the shoulder, there, eh?" 
"Fine"  I chambered another round, concentrating, keeping the bead on the bobbing target, I spotted a knot sticking above the waterline, cuddled up to the stock, squeezed more slowly, took a deep breath, blew it out. KABOOOOOMMMM!!!!
"Well, damn, Skutr, looks like ya hit somethin'."  Brad slapped my back.  Willard already had the binoculars up, shaking his head. "Yup, I think he hit it."

We spent the rest of the morning shooting cans off the icehouse ruins across the back of the island.  The distance was just about perfect and the grassy hill behind the building was a perfect backstop.  Brad pulled out his .308, which I soon found kicked more than the 30-06 and Willard grabbed a .22 rifle because the rounds were cheaper.  It was an interesting experiment in ballistics and inertia to see the difference between the .308 hitting a half full soda can and the .22.  Cans hit by the larger bore rifle kind of disintegrated and jumped dramatically off the wall.  Those punctured by the .22 just sat there with a hole in them, perhaps leaking if hit low enough.  Usually we had to resort to the binoculars for scoring.

About this time Sandy, the cabin girl, wandered by talking smack.  I offered her the .22 but I guess even women have moments when the hormones get the better of them.  She grabbed Brad's .308 and sat on the hillside, eyeing the line of soda cans across the water.  BLAM, BLAM, BLAM she sent three cans flying.  She handed Brad his rifle and walked over the hill muttering something about an old basketball injury. 

After lunch, the call came that the barge was full. The morning fog had lifted, revealing a bright sunny day with little breeze.  The waters had a shimmering quality as the light sparkled from rippled waves.  I filled my tank (which seems a little odd in retrospect, I'd be carrying 500 gallons of mixed gas) and headed off to the Falls.  The trip was beautiful and I had the barge secured in no time.  I had learned so much bringing the fussy barge in from Split Rock that this trip would be a snap. 

The outboard snapped to life and I clambered over the tanks on the barge to release the mooring ropes, gave a little push and hopped back over the barrels and into my driver's seat, flotation device/cushions arranged neatly in the rear corner of the boat, I nudged the throttle of the 25 Evinrude.  The propeller began to throw up spray and the boat shifted attitude in response, but the barge continued to drift sideways, thanks to my enthusiastic push-off.  I swung the tiller arm toward the barge, resulting in a slow spinning motion between the two watercraft.  I was now sideways with the nose of both craft facing the dock and people's prized boats. On the positive, I had overcome the momentum and they now idled, practically still between docks.  Here began my second experiment of the day on the effects of inertia.

As the barge now carried about 1800 gallons of straight gas, mixed gas and diesel fuel, it rode much lower in the water and had a much stronger sense of direction.  Gone was the penchant for catching the slightest breeze, replaced by a knack for maintaining motion and direction, backed by the weight of the full tanks.  Fortunately, my learning curve was shortening with every day in Gohere Bay.  The barge ran straight and true through the water, but required planning to turn or slow.  So with a little patience, swinging the turn out of the bay a little wide, I was on my way. 

Now, once you leave the bay at Nestor Falls, there's about a five mile run that's pretty uneventful to the mouth of Gohere Bay.  I hunkered down with the lunch I'd packed and began to hum as the motor purred along.  The water sloshed between the two boats in a steady gurgle as we sliced across the mirror-like waters of Sabaskong.  I was pretty proud of my developing skills and feeling as if maybe this summer on the Rock wouldn't be so bad after all.  Wolf Island drifted past, majestic pines throwing long shadows across the channel as I adjusted course toward the rocky outline at the opposite end of the island from the camp.  Passing cabin 6, I leaned on the tiller to make the left hand turn toward the docks.  The barge, however, had a full head of steam and continued down the bay, dragging my little boat along with it.  I cut back the throttle, then threw the motor in reverse which accomplished little except to throw a spray over the transom, soaking my shirt, pants and the last sandwich from my lunch before the barge came to a grudging halt.

By this time, I was a hundred yards out in front of the camp, the two craft lashed together spun lazily in the afternoon sun.  Willard appeared from the store and began waving as if inviting me in.  Brad popped his head out of the motor shed and began calling out to me "Don't stop there, bring it in!!"

The trip from the Government Dock to the island had taken about an hour.  Landing the barge took nearly as long as the bulky thing over-reacted to every input or attempt to control its motions except, of course, those involving stopping or slowing.  As I finally nudged the barge up to the dock and clambered over the tanks to secure the moorings, Willard's voice boomed, "How the HECK do you manage to get wet on a perfectly SUNNY day?"

Happy Birthday and a Sad Anniversary

I love fall, perhaps because I am a November baby. Happy November 7 Birthday to me.

The chill in the air and smell of fires and heaters, soggy leaves on the ground or blowing on crisp breezes bring me to life as I layer wool sweaters or flannel shirts. The weather is moody, often dark or mysterious then, suddenly, calm and easy, much like the temperment of the the lake once referred to as La Mer des Isles.

This brings us to November at Cyclone Pointe in 1932, when the Peterson family met Dennis Chabot in Nestor Falls en route to our beloved camp. The story is among the first posts on this site and you may revisit those early posts for all the details. The Petersons and Chabot would take their last journey that November, all save Christine, wife and mother, who would survive to relay her harrowing tale.

A little simple math, working backward from the November 9th publishing date in local newspapers stating Mrs. Peterson had been in the wilderness overnight and allowing a day to reach press, place my birth on the theoretical date of the accident. If news was published in Fort Frances and Kenora on the 9th, she was probably rescued on the 8th and the party would have sailed the evening of the 7th.

I'm sure Dianne will correct me if my details are askew, and I welcome the correction, but it can put one slightly ill at ease to note the convergence, if one were to note such coincidences.

For now, I offer a sip of scotch, I don't know if either of them actually drank the stuff, to the first generation of the Camp at Gohere Bay.

Rain and the Gas Barge

I arrived at the Camp for my second tour of duty fresh off completing junior high school. To say I was a skinny kid would be an understatement at 6'1" and 125#. The first week I spent carrying insulated panelling in 4x8 sheets that weighed about 130# each. Every gust of wind threatened to carry me off the island.



Fresh off a growth spurt, I struggled with coordination and balance like all teenage boys do. I found myself constantly wet from plunging into the still chilly waters of Gohere Bay. The docks were wet and slick from the week of rain that arrived as I did. The fact that the next chore, after insulating cabins, was to re-plank the main dock, didn't help. The main dock is over 90 feet long and consists of a series of deck built atop previous decks. The nature of the glacial drag on the south side of the island necessitates the length of the dock. The sandy bottom of Gohere Bay continues to swallow cribs and decks year after year. We had to do some realignment and cut away some previous crib platforms that had shifted, creating hazards to boat motors and hulls. I don't know if you've ever seen a chainsaw used in the water, but it is a spectacular sight.



The lowlight of my greenhorn experience came when I broke my first hammer pulling nails. I was taken to task for using a hammer to pull nails, seems I should have known that's what crowbars are for. The fact that Raj was, at that very moment, driving nails with the crowbar in question, only added to the teasing.



Figuring that I would be a little more helpful with a job that require less finesse and ballast, I was sent off to collect the gas barge. (cue Arlo Guthrie guitar riff) The gas barge was a converted SteelCraft cruiser. The SteelCraft was a 1940's contraption and extrapolation of the sturdier is better approach to boat building. This thing was 23 feet of steel with gunwales about 5 feet high. It had been gutted and fitted with two 500 gallon tanks and a 250 gallon tank. On the back was a bracket meant to hold an outboard motor but the adjustments were frozen by rust and layers of paint. My assignment was simple, pick up the barge, take it to town and dock it at the Government Dock where the tanks would be filled.



Nothing on Lake of the Woods is ever that simple. The barge was moored in a bay that was so full of reefs as to be non-fishable making safely securing it a challenge. The cove was sheltered and calm so I chose the safer technique of paddling in, making note of the location of reefs and shallows. Once the barge was secured side-by-side with my boat, I cut it loose from the buoy to which it was tethered and headed slowly out of the cove. No sooner did I clear into Split Rock Narrows than the wind gusted pushing the barge which was riding high in the water as it was empty. Being tied side to side with the barge limited the steering as well as speed. I resigned myself that the ten mile trip to the Falls would be a long one, but once I sorted out the steering issues, I relaxed and began to sing, a habit of mine on long boat rides. If only I had packed a lunch.



Of course the ride was not smooth, the wind was blowing straight up toward Cyclone Pointe. As soon as I cleared the narrows at the western end of Wolf Island, the waves began rolling, pitching my boat while the wind played havoc with the barge. To make the ride complete, the rain started. I have not had many rides take as long. The rain was blowing at my back, so at least I could see. I inched along the angry waters of Sabaskong toward Cyclone Pointe. I figured when I made the turn to head toward Par-a-dise Island, I would pick the shelter of the Alneau Peninsula, however this was my first solo experience with the changing weather of the lake. As I rounded the point, clearing the ring buoy with a wide berth, wind and rain met me head-on. I couldn't see through my glasses for the rain, but if I took them off, the rain was blowing hard enough I couldn't keep my eyes open. Finally, I found an angle where the brim of my baseball cap kept the rain at bay, if only slightly.



Heading into the waves, the water splashed between the boats, soaking whatever was left dry on my body. I pulled in, past the Falls, to the Government Dock and parked the barge, just as the rain ended. I peeled off my soaked windbreaker and sweatshirt, hopped back in the boat and headed to camp for hot coffee and beef stew when the realization hit that I'd be back the next day to pick up the loaded barge.

Lay of the Land

In my recent correspondences with Ruth at the Camp, we have been discussing the layout of the buildings and numbering systems.  Out of this discussion grew the question I ask on nearly a daily basis and for which I continue to seek an answer.  Why?  Why would anyone build such a camp on such a remote island?  The island is 35 acres, though mostly unbuildable Canadian Shield granite covered with thick moss that anchors the mixed forest of pine, aspen, bambigalia and other evergreen and deciduous trees.  The Camp sits on about five to seven acres that are low enough to be accessible and have enough soil to hold buildings and a septic field. 

The question I think I can start to answer is 'How was the camp built?  Which building was built first?'

I'm going to begin on the north side of the island.  Today the south side of the island in the 'front door' of the camp, but instinct says this was not always the case and the evidence seems to support this. 

The Chalet was a large log cabin that stood on a high rocky bluff, the high point of the camp parcel on the water, at the northwest corner of the camp.  This high point offered spectaular views across the mouth of Gohere Bay to Wolf Island or the mainland where bear and moose fed along a steep embankment and otters are still seen sliding down muddy spots along the bank.  The Chalet was often referred to as the original lodge building with a large central room featuring a stone fireplace and lofty ceiling.  Off the northeast and northwest corners were small bedrooms, each a few steps down.  One was later converted to a kitchenette.  A large screened porch along the western end of the building looked over the bay and was probably a great place to catch the sun sinking over the northwoods.

I do not, however, think of the Chalet as the oldest building, or even the oldest cabin.  For that, I believe, is what I knew as cabin 7.  This cabin sits at the crest of the hill overlooking the cove on the north side of the island.  I would say this was the original face of the camp as the glacial cut gives deep water right off the shoreline.  Legend tells of steamboats visiting the camp that would have needed plenty of water for their deep draft.  The cabin featured multiple rooms, a screened porch and stone fireplace. 

The current front door of the camp was most likely built later as the southern shoreline in front of the store is a shallow glacial drag.  The current pier is more than 90 feet long out of necessity.  The area that is currently decked was previously the site of a stone retaining wall, built in the 1960's to cure the mudpit that formed every spring and threatened to take the old store building into the lake.  The retaining wall allowed the addition to be built onto the old store building that made that building into the owner's cabin.  The icehouse beside the lodge building then became the store and office and the icehouse at the north side of the island, across the cove, fell into ruin.

I would say the real log cabins were built next, far enough apart to give them each a sense of isolation.  Cabin two and three atop a bluff looking south over Gohere Bay at twin islands further down the bay.  I would say the last of these is what I knew as cabin 6 at the south east corner of the island sitting beside a tiny cove on a rocky point.  This appears to be the most refined and largest of the log cabins aside from the Chalet. 

This is just conjecture of course.  Wouldn't it be great to find some great narrative from the time the camp was built in the 1920's to answer all the questions?  Was it a loggin camp or always for tourists, hunters and fisherman?  Why that island?  Why so big?  Splitrock Lodge appears to be a contemporary but is only a few buildings and is at a narrows on the main channel.  Green's was built on the mainland as a two-story, perhaps even as a hotel.  Helliar's, built when the bridge went through in the 1930's, has more of an autocamp feel next to Nestor Falls.

Today, all we can do is look and try to imagine the thoughts of the builders who first carved a settlement from the forest and laid the groundwork for the Camp we know today and be thankful for our time on Gohere Bay.

The Rock: a love story on Gohere Bay

This is a love story about Tom, Arlene and involving a guy named Red along with a hunk of granite.

Once upon a time in Gohere Bay, a lovely princess was held captive by her uncaring father on a rocky island in a fishing camp, filled with old men who smelled of fish bait, whiskey, tobacco and lake water...

That's the way Arlene saw her two week stay at the Camp.  Two weeks away from the trappings of her father's financial success in the fishing industry.  He was successful, respected and well-liked by most in the business.  This trip was essentially another business trip with a little recreation thrown in.  Arlene had little use for fishing.  What teen girl really wants to sit in a boat for hours, eat greasy fried fish on a rocky shoreline and get back in the boat for the afternoon?  After dinner, Arlene would chat up Willard's teenage sons to take her out water-skiing behind one of the camp fishing boats, but until then, she was a princess stuck in a wooden castle with one of the biggest moats in north america.

One evening, after dinner, as she made her way to the docks, wearing a tank suit and sneakers, she ran into Tom.  Tall and gangly, he was not necessarily Prince Charming, but compared to the rest of the campers, he seemed to fit the bill.  She learned he liked to ski as well as fish.

So Prince Charming and the Lovely Princess began to spend their evenings together, waterskiing, exploring the island and, yes, even fishing.  But our Princess Arlene still spent lonely days in her log castle or walking the shores, waiting for Prince Tom to return from the sea (lake).  In her boredom, she began chipping away at a large boulder outside her lonely cabin.  Eventually, the initials appeared A + T.  She thought nothing of it.  After dinner Tom and Arlene, prince and princess, continued to spend time together.  Willard's sons noticed it, the guests noticed it, even the guides noticed it.  Which is what prompted Red to take the next step.

It was Friday evening and the guests piled on the pontoon barge with lawnchairs and buckets of minnows for an evening of crappie fishing along the weedbeds at the end of Gohere Bay.  The guides had the weekend free for change-over and several of them would head off early to visit family or the taverns in town.  This week, not one guide left early.  They were all sitting on the dock looking busy when the barge returned.  The men worked to stifle chuckles while the guests unloaded the barge and headed to cabins, some lingering on the dock for a final few casts.  Finally, they heard the scream they all knew was coming.  The Princess had returned to her tower to find the boulder sitting in the middle of her bed.  Red had somehow carried the huge slab of granite into the cabin and placed it on the bed whose springs now sagged nearly to the floor. 

The guides burst out laughing while the guests and crew ran to see what the matter was.  They all came out shaking their heads.  Red had 'disappeared' for the evening and it took three of the guides to get the rock out of the bed so they could roll it out the cabin door and, eventually, to a spot near the dock.

Some say the boulder is still there and that the carved initials can be faintly seen, though weathered by the elements of Gohere Bay.

As for Tom and Arlene...they're known to be seen every once in a while at Paradise Island.

C

...but is it real?

Someone asked me recently whether the camp is a 'Real Place'.  Well, if you look at a map of northwestern Ontario, just south of the booming metropolis of Nestor Falls, is a place called Gohere Bay.  At the mouth of Gohere Bay, a section of the larger Sabaskong Bay, on Lake of the Woods, is an island that is marked with a 'T' on maps.  The 'T' stands for tourist camp.  So, yes, the Camp is real.

It has been known by various names over the years and has had many owners.  I spent several years there as a child and a few more during my high school years.  It's a fine place, perched on a rocky outcrop in the middle of the glacial lake.

I suppose the next question would be the truthfulness of the stories.  Most of the stories I share here have some basis in true stories, though many of the details have been lost to time, exaggeration, hyperbole and forgetfulness.  Tom and Arlene are real people as are Mary and Willard.  Paradise Island is also a  real place, though its exact location takes some digging on some really old maps where it appears as "Par-a-dise Island".  Red, Skarr, Joe, Brad, Raj, Sonny, Dale, Bob and others you have yet to meet, have all gathered around the guide's table and shared meals, fish stories and tall tales mixed with a few off-color jokes.  Dennis Nona, Eyner and Christine, Erling and Cheryl, right down down to Ruth and Scott. 

All people who share a little piece of life on Gohere Bay.

A Word About Mary

Many of the stories featured here deal with Willard, the larger-than-life character who was the front man for the Camp at Gohere Bay for the better part of forty years.  But the question I hear from Ruth, the current resident I correspond with, is "What about Mary?  Why do the men get all the recognition and the stories?  Where is Mary's story?"  And better questions may never have been asked.  Willard was a brand, a marketing man with a plan.  Put a name out there, big and bold, with a face behind it, then set a standard and live up to it.  He was tough and, some would say mean, but consistent.  But you all know the old saying, 'Behind every successful man is a woman with a big stick to keep him going'.  Well, maybe not exactly those words.

Mary was born to a wealthy family in small-town America.  Her grandfather was a quarry man who ran with the likes of "Bet-a-Million" Gates and spent his share of money.  Then the Great Depression hit on the heels of Prohibition.  Properties were lost, demand for building materials dried up and the family fell on hard times.  Mary spent her teen years working at the local drug store where she was courted, wooed and hit on by many of the small town's men.  Her stunning figure, soft features and thirst for adventure were irresistable.  She flew in airplanes on barnstorming tours, rode motorcycles with wealthy businessmen and rarely backed down from a challenge.  Her mother's skill as a seamstress kept Mary in fresh and stylish clothing as she met society head on. 

Finally the irresistable force met the immovable object, Willard, at a church carnival.  Willard was driven and Mary was the perfect foil for his brash demeanor.  Together they had no idea what they could not do.  Willard had difficulty finding work so he made his own.  Whether cleaning beer coils or peddling Christmas trees, he found a way to keep food on the table and a roof over their heads, usually with the help of Mary's management skills.

Nowhere were her skills more evident than in Gohere Bay.  For a woman to manage a camp in the 1940's when women didn't even visit such camps was quite a story.  She worked hard and held the rugged men to high standards.  She expected manners but was tolerant of the occasional joke.  She could dress to the nines but was always ready to tag along in khakis and flannel. 

Writing about Mary is a challenge because of the variety of who she was and what she did.  Among her awards were a Palmer Method award for handwriting, a Field and Stream award for a northern pike she landed, a small-mouth bass mount that hung in the lodge building for years and commendations from various church groups.  She played cards everywhere she went, Europe, Mexico, the Arctic, on trains and on planes.  I have a photo of her standing with an eight foot marlin that she landed after a two hour fight. 

She was strict and competitive.  I learned most of what I know of cards from her and some of my proudest moments come from beating her at gin or rummy on lazy afternoons or late nights.  She never cut the kids any slack, she said "a victory where someone lets you win is no victory".  I know I earned everything I got from her, every card game I won, every time I bested her with rod and reel, the incessant clicking of her perfectly manicured nails on the card table or the side of the boat, was a challenge. 

I suppose there's more to say, and you'll see it in the stories that pop up here, but until then know that the women are not forgotten, be it Nona Chabot, who tried to keep up the dream of her husband Dennis, or Christine Peterson, who survived the accident that took her husband and two children, or Ruth who manages the camp on bum knees or my darling who ambled down to the water with a teapot...

C

Senses of Place

Physical senses have been linked to memory recall and emotional responses.  In this space, I have written about the intensity of memories linked to smell and sound.  How the glug-glug sound of water brings to mind boats peacefully bobbing at their moorings or the rustle of leaves sets off memories of breezy afternoons on Gohere Bay.  Similarly, smells such as pipe tobacco or the scent of fresh water in a living lake, trigger thoughts of brisk mornings on the docks or still evenings casting the weedbeds of Lake of the Woods.

There are two distinct scents that, for me, are stronger than others.  One is the scent of the kitchen at my aunt Patricia's house.  It is a distinct smell that I often detect wandering neighborhoods and city streets where people cook with their windows open.  I noticed, even when I was young, that this smell was not about place, but about life.  At first I thought the mix of cigarette smoke, coffee, cooking and 'something else' had something to do with the small house where she lived.  Then she moved and friends moved into her old house.  I visited expecting the same comforting smells, but was disappointed.  Then I visited her new house and was immediately cognizant of that special smell.  Finally, she visited Gohere Bay one year, and after a day in cabin 8, that same comfortable essence filled the old building with a new feel.  When she left, I visited the cabin every day for a week until the scent finally reverted back to the standard mix of cedar, wool and moth balls.

The other scent, is that of Mary.  She, too, carried a scent to her kitchen and, to a lesser extent, her living space.  Yesterday I was in a hallway, 700 miles from Gohere Bay, in the hallway of a 70 year old hospital building, when I encountered her scent recreated as if for me from a collection of cleaning products and 70 year old dust released from new construction.  I stood in the hallway for a time, longer than I needed to, long enough to be late for a meeting; smelling, feeling, absorbing the essence of another time and another place.  Reliving the lessons of Gohere Bay.

Latin Classes at the Camp

Willard's three sons all attended Catholic schools through elementary and high school.  The two oldest graduated from Marquette University in Milwaukee.  Wintering in Illinois while running the camp made for many challenges and among them was education.  Camp typically began opening in May so Willard would head north sometime in April as the ice was going out.  He would round up the crew and start the business of readying the Camp for guests.  Mary would stay behind a few weeks to close up the home down south, often finding renters to occupy the home during the summer months for a few extra dollars income. 

Leaving in early May meant the school year was not finished.  Mary made the rounds of teachers to collect assignments, tests and projects.  Each year was a series of intense discussions with teachers and principals as to the importance of education and how the children should be allowed to complete the school year and when would they be returning in the fall because the school could not guarantee holding their spots until October like they did last year...

The Catholic church being what it is, prepaid tuition went a long way to securing spots in the following year's classes.  Assignments were mailed to the school as they were completed and as long as the work was acceptable and the boys didn't fall behind, life went on.

Until one year in high school when the two older boys fell behind in their Latin studies.  As Mary went about collecting school work, it was revealed the boys were quite in arrears and their teacher felt there was no way they could catch up.  He was refusing to give the assignments and was firm in his belief the boys should attend summer school to complete the course work.  Mary had exhausted all her usual appeals and was about to begin making arrangements for the boys to stay behind with relatives for the summer.

Willard was concerned with the expense of replacing two able-bodied guides and made one last attempt.  He met with the young priest who taught the Latin class and suggested private tutoring at the Camp.  The priest finally agreed on the condition that he personally oversee the lessons.  There was always an extra space somewhere in camp so Willard agreed.  He left with a list of assignments for the boys to complete.

As the family went about the chores of readying camp for the season by day, the evenings were filled with school work around the plank table in the main room of the Camp's largest cabin, known as the 'Chalet'.  The boys worked into the night next to a roaring fire while Willard read and Mary worked on her reservation book, correspondance or played solitaire.  Normally these were quiet evenings spent looking out at the mouth of Gohere Bay, dreaming of adventures to be played out over the summer.  This year it was all Latin.  The routine continued until June when Willard met the train in International Falls and collected the priest/Latin teacher who had left for the northwoods as soon as the last students were out of the school for the summer.

Once the chores of the day were complete and dinner cleared, dishes done, they all gathered in the chalet around the plank table.  The fire roared to chase away the evening chill that still set in despite the warmth of the summer days.  Father paced around the table as the boys collected their work in two neat piles, he collected the piles into one large stack of loose-leaf paper, the pages filled with hours of nervous translations, conjugations and writing exercises in the best ink scrawl the two teen boys could muster.  He thumbed through the papers, making odd faces, wincing on occasion, tsk-ing at times.  Finally he walked to the fireplace, turned to face the boys and dropped the entire stack into the flames.  The boys nearly dove from their seats as they watched hours of work go up in smoke.  Their jaws hung slack and their eyes moistened.

"That," began the young priest, "is the work you should have been doing all year."  He began quizzing the boys about verbs and translations, syntax and grammar.  Then he began a discussion in Latin.  The boys were able to generally follow and add to the discussion.  After about thirty minutes he announced, "That concludes your final exam.  You have passed.  Now I need to be off to bed, I expect my boat and guide will be ready at 5:30.  I didn't come hear to waste all my time on your Latin lessons."

Willard loved to tell that story, especially the crest-fallen look on the boys' faces as they watched two months worth of work go into the fire.  Willard would always get a serious look on his face just before he burst into his toothy grin.

The boys took turns guiding for the priest throughout his stay and they became friendly.  Another of the life lessons learned on Gohere Bay.

Spread the Word

As I watch my visit counter, located at the bottom of the page, climb slowly upward, I am at once happy and sad.  I appreciate the fact that this blog has been visited more than 325 times, but the reason I'm here is to get the word out about one of the great places on Earth.  So if you have a friend or acquaintance that might enjoy learning about Gohere Bay or the people who have made a living in the 90 year history of this place or might just enjoy a little diversion and smile, forward the link.  Let's get to 400.

C

Around the Table

Things change over time.  I've spent quite a bit of time on this theme, and maybe this is the entire point of this blog.  When the Camp was built, as soon as solid shelter was complete, the next necessity for a camp of this size was an ice house.  Ice was a natural resource of sorts, renewable every winter.  It allowed storage of perishable foodstuff through the summer months when the sun shone on Gohere Bay, reflecting off the sparkling waters to drive temperatures soaring in heavily wooded areas. 

Ice harvesting was the work of winter when the lake froze solid.  Heavy boring bits drilled patterns in the thick ice a ways off shore.  Long saws tore through the ice to connect the dots and create blocks that floated free.  After several blocks were floating, large tongs were clamped in the blocks and they were lifted out to a waiting sled.  Once at the ice house, they were skidded into place and covered with sawdust to absorb moisture and minimize melt.

Some cabins were built with lofts above where ice was stored.  This provided the byproduct of a cool dwelling in the summer months.

While refrigeration became commonplace in the rest of the world, ice houses were still common in Gohere Bay well into the 1940's.  Finally, the new generator was in place and electricity would keep the freezers running enough to prevent thaw. 

Thus began a re-puropsing of buildings at the Camp.  The icehouse near the dock became the store and office, the office/store was remodelled to the owner's cabin with the motor house/toolshed being converted into sleeping quarter and eventually an indoor bathroom. 

The space between the icehouse and the lodge building had been filled in as a kitchen to service the main dining room.  The design was simple and followed Canadian Design Prinicpals.  Start at the highest immovable rock and build everything else up to that level.  There was a leftover space between the walls of the icehouse and the wall of the lodge building that was long and narrow.  A window was placed at the far end and a team of guides fashioned a table and benches of planks.  As the space was tight, the benches didn't move and once on the bench, those seated merely slid down toward the window.  The log walls provided a firm, if quirky, backrest and developed a smooth finish from the constant buffing of wool, denim, oilcloth and cotton.

The Guide's table quickly became the hub of the Camp.  In the morning plans and wagers were made at dinner time stories were told, all over meals prepared by the cook of the day.  Nobody ever counted, but Willard often spoke of the number of languages in play at any one time.  Fights at the guide's table were rare, there just wasn't any room, besides, how angry can two men stay when sharing meals of fresh fish, moose, rhubarb or meatloaf.

I think the one thing I may miss the most would be the Guide's table.  I miss the quirkiness, the languages like the husky, clipped tone of Welsh, the intensity of French, the gutteral German or the sing-song lilt of Swedish and Norwegian.  The last time I sat at the table late at night, gazing out the four panes of glass, I marvelled at the quiet, there in the stillness of 10:00 pm dusk, watching the mirror-like water reflect the string of yellow light bulbs, hung between the store and the manager's cabin, I knew the Camp would never be the same as it was at that moment.  Then I figured, it never had been the same as that moment either.

Anniversary Thoughts

Today, I celebrate 20 years of marriage. Annie and I were married on a lovely, warm fall day.  80 degrees and blustery.  The next day it snowed.

Fearlessly, we headed to Gohere Bay, Cyclone Pointe and other settings on the Lake of the Woods.  Arriving late in the afternoon, there was not enough daylight to connect the water lines and the floor heater (which was carried in my father's pickup truck, necessitating me being cramped with the luggage in the cab) would not light.  So I bulit a fire, we played some 'killer solitaire' by gaslight and we headed off to bed.

I woke to an empty spot in the bed next to me.  Many thoughts crossed my mind..."It's only been three days, she wouldn't leave me already...where would she go...I didn't hear the boat start..."

I was jarred back to reality by the 'thock' of the screen door slamming.  Then she was standing in the doorway, down ski coat over her pajamas and sneakers with the tea kettle in her hand. 

"I wanted some tea," was all she said.  What a girl, she had wandered down to the shore to get water for her morning tea.

I have been on a thread about change and what better time to look back.  I have what I would consider a very real view of the world. I know what happens to man-made things when nature gets hold of them. In a way, it's one of the things I appreciate most. I remember visiting abandoned cabins decomposing along shorelines or on hills buildings sturdily built to survive storms and snows.

To think of it another way, we, as people, are constantly growing and changing. Hair gets lighter and darker, tan lines come and go, we experience things and those experiences change us, often in ways we don't even realize. Yet it is that growth that, in time, makes us more than our physical attributes. More attractive in ways than younger, physically gifted folks who lack the conviction and wisdom of experience and age.

I sometimes imagine the camp covered in moss, resting peacefully, working days behind it where people tried to carve a static living in a place nature and design never intended. The place is meant to be transitory and untamed. Perhaps that's why everything is such a struggle. Some places weren't meant for all the conveniences of modern society. Those who manage to last year after year understand the challenges of nature, constantly renewing itself.  Things we consider permanent only leave scars behind years later.  I remember a bunkhouse on the top of the island at the Camp.  When I returned years later, it was a junkpile, walls collapsed and floor heaped with garbage.  Now it doesn't even show on the aerial photographs.

Everything that is now old, was once new.  Every tradition was once an idea that somebody nursed, scared and nervous, before they brought it out to daylight.  And, sure enough, somebody was there to give a hundred reasons it wouldn't work or was wrong or would never last.  Today, the Camp could never be built, and maybe it shouldn't have been.  But since 1922 or 1929 or 1932, whenever it began, it has brought people together who would never have met otherwise.  Similarly, Annie and I have done a lot of crazy things together and built a few connections of our own.

Perspective, Time and the Reality of Now

I received a response to my latest post that alluded to the dangers of going home.  Friends wrote to relate a discussion over breakfast about the "reality of now" versus the pleasant memories of a time gone by.  The man spoke of visiting the farmhouse where his grandmother lived while he was growing up.  He had memories of sights and sounds and smells of the large bustling kitchen but returning as a grown man was disappointed at the cramped room that was so different when seen from the perspective of a grown man.  Similarly, he returned to grandpa's cabin after years away and was again disappointed at the change and his happy memories were dashed by the "reality of now". 

For another, it was going back to Gramma's old house where "lovely red brick walls were covered in ugly vinyl siding, gorgeous old stained glass windows were replaced with energy efficient ones and big beautiful exterior wooden doors had also been replaced. The door bell had a little twist handle that one would use to ring it.  This was now gone as well".  While she took solace that  all this was done in an effort to keep the old place alive and well, it "didn't do a damn thing for the keeping of my memories. I cried and cried"

I have experienced similar things of course.  The world looks different from six feet in the air than it did when I was a kid.  Most things in life change as our perspective changes, though the changes are more subtle with things we experience everyday such as businesses or Main Street.  When we visit someplace where we haven't the luxury of the slow evolution over time, the shock is more palpable.  My most shocking experience was a hot chocolate cup.  Sitting in my grandparents house, with the blue kitchen counter, listening to WJOL news at lunchtime, I drank from a mug with an elf and a television set.  When Granddad died, I took the mug from the cabinet to my own house.  What I had grown up believing was a standard, and very grown up, sized coffee mug is little more than demi-tasse.  The effect of thirty years of seperation.

I have been accused of sentimentality on this blog and in my historic fiction writing in general.  I have a keen sense of time and place and details as well as an appreciation.  But I am also acutely aware of change and evolution proceeding around us always.  As Richard Bach wrote in his book, Illusions, "...if stagnation is perfection, then Heaven is a swamp".  He also uses the ocean as a metaphor for beauty in change.  The ocean is beautiful and one could argue it is perfect, yet it is constantly changing.  Always changing, always beautiful, always perfect, just like the waters of Gohere Bay.

Our Orchestra...

For years a sign hung next to the piano, painted on a piece of plywood in a variety of lettering style explaining "OUR ORCHESTRA IS not HERE SUNDAY, MONDAY, TUESDAY, WEDNESDAY, THURSDAY, FRIDAY OR SATURDAY".  This sign was originally commissioned for a tavern in Joliet, Il by the name of the Derby. 

The Derby was owned by Char "the Irishman".  He wasn't really Irish, but that doesn't affect this story.  Char was a bit of a scavenger and trader by nature, having once traded some horses for a Stutz Bearcat which he then sold in a claiming race at the local fairgrounds because an automobile didn't seem practical at the moment.  Char took odd jobs during the depression, and prohibition, to make ends meet such as driving the bread wagon, trading and recycling horses and whatever else a healthy man could do. 

On one of his trips, an old tavern was being renovated, or perhaps razed, so poking around, he noticed the large backbar, complete with stage.  He arranged to have the bar trimmings removed and transported to the Derby where they were installed with little modification.  Customers were duely impressed with the gleaming hardwood, polished mirrors and etched glass light fixtures. 

The Derby, however, was no place for musical entertainment, it was a neighborhood tavern where working men, police and firemen mingled with politicians and businessmen in an easy atmosphere to smoke cigars and share a drink.  It began as a question and quickly progressed to a joke, what time did the band start?  Regulars would make up show times for visitors passing through and spin yarns of the amazing talent that frequented the tiny tavern.  But the idea of good-natured teasing depends which side of the joke you're on and some did not take kindly to waiting around for hours to hear a band that would never show. 

Finally, an old buddy and painter presented Char with the sign to clarify the entertainment situation at the Derby.  In lettering that gets progressively smaller the further one reads, much like a legal contract, the reality of entertainment at the Derby.

OUR ORCHESTRA IS not HERE - Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday

Thanks for the Information

Thanks to blog follower, Jim Rafac...make that World Record Angler and noted fiction writer, Jim Rafac, for filling in a blank in my personal memory.  Jim wrote to say the sound effects performer I referred to last week was the acclaimed Wes Harrison.

In his email, Jim referred to Mr. Harrison as "The standard by which all others are measured" and noted that at age 84, Harrison performs daily at the Wisconsin Dells and hinted he is scheduled for a return to the Chicago Sports Show next year. 

As in this case, I have found the internet useful in passive research, whereby I put out a post and information comes to me.  This happened about this time last year when I first began the Historic Impressions blog (what I refer to as the blog next door).  I posted some off beat material about one-time noted architect that my family had spent years researching, F.S. Allen. After a move to California, the trail went cold, but thanks to a new friend, I have all the sordid 1930's tabloid details.  Check out http://www.historicimpressions.blogspot.com/ for more details or to satisfy your morbid curiosity. 

Meanwhile, if you were intrigued my the introduction at the beginning of this post, check out the bottom of the page for reading suggestions.

Izaak Walton Update

Well my dear friends at the Izaak Walton League are at it again. I asked if perhaps Eyner Peterson or Dennis Chabot were among the founding members of the League as well as Dr. Sutton. While none of the names show on the national lists of original members, the team did locate an article in the 1933 December/January issue of the newsletter Outdoor American reporting the deaths of Peterson and Chabot.  The article is mostly a combination of articles posted here previously.

Many thanks to Leila at the Izaak Walton League http://www.iwla.org/

Chicago Sports and Recreation Show at the International Amphitheatre

Some of my best and earliest memories revolve around Gohere Bay.  The scenery, fresh air, ruggedness and the lake all play a part in my ongoing fascination with this craggy part of the world.  Another element that is sometimes overlooked is the time I spent in exhibition halls around the Chicagoland area.  Every winter, the holidays past, the dog days of the school year were offset by the excitement and bustle of trade show season.  There are four pivotal shows I recall, each unique for atmosphere, location and experiences. 

The biggest and most overwhelming was the Boat and RV Show at McCormick place.  It was huge and spending days wandering in and out of RV's and campers or huge sailboats and cabin cruisers was a thrill.

The Lockport Sport Show was a quirky, small town affair, held at the local high school.  It was small and homey and close by.

The Rosemont show was held at the Rosemont Expo Center, near the infamous Rosemont Horizon Theatre, infamous for collapsing while under construction.  It was kind of a sterile and faceless show.

But the one that captured all the attention, was the show at Chicago's Interational Amphitheatre.  Featuring a stage show with trained dogs, Peanuts the Clown, Tuffy Truesdale and Victor the Wrestling Bear, cigar-box jugglers, sound effects acts, log rolling, casting and bow and arrow demonstrations...you just don't get that kind of entertainment any more.  I remember the sound effects guy doing a comparison of different types of door knobs rolling down a flight of stairs.  He had no machines, just his mouth and a microphone and a very warped sense of humour. 

Dalton Peck was a log roller from British Columbia, I remember that from all the years John Bromfield introduced him as he and his various partners had log-rolling competitions, canoe jousts and Dalton worked his giant rolling ball.  A few years he had a dog with him as well. 

Canoe jousting was one of my favorites and I always wanted to give it a try.  The plot was simple:  Two teams, each in a canoe and armed with a single boxing glove at the end of a long pole.  One team member steered the canoe with a paddle while the other engaged in a pushing and sort of boxing with the other team.  The paddlers would splash each other, maneuver the boat for the best tactical approach and try to keep the boat upright.  The round ended when one battler ended up in the water. 

The stage show featured John Bromfield, Sheriff of Cochise on television, as master of ceremonies.  John was a movie actor of some note in the 50's and 60's in addition to his television work.  His booming voice and imposing presence served him well as host.  

The pool hosted log rolling as well as demonstrations of water dogs performing retreiving skills and the lovely Judy Pachner performing casting demonstrations.  She had routines where she handle two and three fly lines at a time as well as target casting into rings in the pool and trick such as the 'bow and arrow', loops and other tricks.  I spent hours on the dock in Gohere Bay trying to master some of those tricks.

My very favorite acts were the cigar box jugglers and plate spinners.  Both were wildly popular on the variety shows of the day and appear to be lost art forms.  I keep trying to explain these acts to my children, but sadly there are few examples.  Maybe YouTube would have something.....

For more information on John Bromfield check out http://www.johnbromfield.com/

The time of year

This morning I was treated to what I refer to as Gohere Bay Flashbacks.  Today's was courtesy of a cool breeze under clear sunny skies and a good dose of the lake. 

As the weather has been warm and muggy lately in Chicago, I dressed in short sleeves for my morning commute.  Arriving at Union Station, I walked out into the contrast a morning sun and a stiff breeze blowing off Lake Michigan.  The breeze gave a crisp chill that cooled my bare arms almost to the point of wishing I had a jacket, but not quite.  Riding the lake breeze was the scent of water and fish and fuel and fresh that signifies a lake that teems with life and energy.  Perhaps the only element missing was the fresh tang of evergreen.  These are the times when I most miss the Camp.  When I recall these mornings, wiping the dew off boat seats, walking cautiously on slick wooden docks, the smell of strong coffee and woodstoves drifting in heavy morning air, I close my eyes and hear the lap of waves on the shore, the gentle glugging sounds of boats rocking back and forth. 

This combination of Gohere Bay morning, set off the memory banks as I rode a bus to the west side.  I was reminded of a favorite of Willard's stories from the trade show days.

A Bad Neighborhood
The Chicago International Amphitheatre was in a marginal neighborhood on the soutwest side of Chicago adjacent to the Chicago Stock Yards.  The Amphitheatre was host to a variety of events including basketball, hockey, concerts etc.  For a week in February, it was host to the Chicago Sports Show where John Bromfield hosted a stage show featuring the likes of Victor the Wrestling Bear, log roller extraordinaire from British Columbia Dalton Peck, casting sensation and Garcia cover girl Judy Pachner and other variety acts.  The show was a major event and diversion in the depths of Chicago's frigid winter and marked the halfway point between Christmas and Easter.

The show attracted many out-of-towners as well as Chicagoans and the maze of ramps and dead end streets on the southwest side made for confusing navigation.  One particular evening, as Willard returned to the amphitheatre with an armload of sandwiches, he encountered an older couple wandering the parking lot, looking a bit lost.  Willard typically had a pocketful of passes and was willing to share with folks who looked to be in need, so he approached the couple.

"Can I help you folks?"
"Well," the older man started, "we just had the oddest experience.  I'd heard there are some bad areas around here and I think we wandered into one of them."  Willard showed his big easy grin and motioned them to follow him.
"So, what happened, do we need to find the police?" Willard asked.
"No, I don't think there's any damage.  See, we ended on a dark dead end street when I noticed we had a flat tire.  I pulled to the curb and was about to get out of the car when I was blinded by a car's highbeams behind us.  I saw the shadows of three men coming toward the car and one of them appeared at my window.  He looked huge and dark.  He motioned for me to roll down the window and began yelling.  I started the car, but the flat tire on the slick street wouldn't move us.  I rolled the window down a crack and the man demanded my keys." 

The man was visibly shaking and not just from the cold night air as the three approached the pass gate where Willard showed his vendor passes and the three were ushered inside.  Inside the hall, they headed for Willard's booth and cups of coffee were poured and the couple sat in chairs at the back of the booth where he continued his story.

"I didn't know what to do so  I rolled down the window a crack and handed the keys to him.  It sounds so stupid, I mean, I handed him my keys!!"  The man leaned forward in his chair, seemingly unable to comprehend what he had done.  "Sure the doors were locked, but he had the keys.  What was I thinking, right..."  His voice trailed off and he shook his head.  The woman reached out to touch his shoulder consolingly.
"So there I am, I just handed over the keys and he walks around to the trunk where these other two are standing and all I can think is these three hoodlums are going to do something.  The trunk opened and I saw the biggest of the men take out the tire iron and come around the side of the car, spinning it in his hands.  The other men, I could hear them, rummaging in the trunk, moving things and metal clanking.  Then I felt the car pitch forward then rock back.  Then it happened again and again.  The men were shouting and laughing, but I couldn't hear what they were saying through the closed windows.  All of a sudden I felt the car pitch more than it had before and the back end start to lift.  I looked in the outer mirror and I'll be damned, they were changing the tire.  The big guy had the lug nuts off and was pulling the tire off, one guy was on the jack, the other had the spare and was slapping it on.  I just couldn't believe it.  I was reaching for my wallet when I noticed the big guy standing at the window with the tire iron in one hand and my keys in the other.  His two partners were standing behind the trunk which they had closed.  I grabbed all the cash I had in my wallet and rolled down the window to hand it to him.  He raised the tire iron and handed laid it in my lap, then handed me my keys.  I reached my hand with the money through the window but he shook his head and smiled, for just a second, before he looked at my wife with a painfully straight face and said 'You all better git outta here, this is a bad neighborhood' and walked back to his car.  He waited to make sure our car started, then they were gone." 

The man took a deep breath and shook his head.  The wife nodded agreement.  Finally, the shaking stopped and they shed their coats. 

Willard smiled.  "Enjoy the show."  As the couple wandered off.

New Leads, New Links

I have always been fascinated by the early 1900's, particularly the 20's and 30's.  The first house I owned was built in 1915 and was decorated much the way it would have looked about 1935.

To me this was an interesting time, not only because of the social and political upheaval, such as the Volstead Act, Great Depression etc, but also changes in the conservation landscape.  The Sierra Club was founded in the 1890's and in the 30's had a few thousand members.  The much faster growing Izaak Walton League, founded in Chicago in 1922, boasted 500,000 by the early 1940's.  The rise of naturalist authors such as Jack London and James Oliver Curwood spoke to the harsh beauty of nature in its raw form.

In reviewing old documents for this site, a newspaper article from Rockford states that Eyner Peterson and Dennis Chabot met when Chabot spoke at a meeting of the Izaak Walton League.  This meeting taking place in the cradle of the Walton League at this early date places these men at the beginnings of this organization. 

In the days since, I have contacted the Izaak Walton League and will be adding a link to their website.  This group has accomplished much in the name of conservation.  In some small way, perhaps the Camp at Gohere Bay is a legacy to the work of this group as well.

Willard's Corner

Nearly as soon as Willard arrived in Gohere Bay, he began searching for an alternate to the crowded Government Dock. The parking lot was dirty, dusty and became a mud pit after the slightest rain. There were often not enough spaces and the docks were crowded with boats left by camps from other lakes. Finding space for the thirty-six foot cruiser he bought along with the camp was a challenge at best. He began scouting the shoreline for suitable sights. He needed enough water to land the large boat and enough parking for about ten or so cars. Finally, he settled on a narrow patch of land between the highway and the lake along the sweeping curve of highway 17, just north of the bridge over Nestor Falls.




Willard’s first attempt was to purchase the swath of land but it was deemed too small to deed. Perhaps a permit from the highway department would be the best idea. So Willard headed off to the ministry of highways who were sympathetic to his plight. But since he was seeking water access and since the property was actually lakefront, they suggested he visit the Ministry of Natural Resources. After explaining, in gentle detail, his dilemma and plan, he was informed that to build within fifty feet of a highway required permission of the Ministry of Highways. Explaining that he had already been referred to Natural Resources by Highways, he was referred back to the Lands office in Kenora.



This carousel continued for quite a while with Willard visiting the Provincial office, the District of Kenora and the District Offices in Fort Frances because, as if to add to the confusion, Nestor Falls sits on the dividing line between these two districts. Frustration continued to mount until it occurred to Willard that perhaps he had been asking the wrong question. Instead of asking how he could build on the strip of land, he began to ask why he could not build there. He asked Resources why he could not build and he was told that they could not grant him a permit, Highways would need to do that. He asked, to be perfectly clear, “Natural Resources could not stop me from building?” and the answer was a resounding “No, we could not stop you from building.” Willard nodded and left the office with a note that stated the Ministry had no objection to his building along the road.



As you may have surmised, the next stop was the Ministry of Highways, and the conversation was much the same. There was no reason he could not build his landing, as they had no jurisdiction.



With these ‘assurances’, Willard began planning the day. He directed the crew to fell and branch a few sturdy pines, far enough back from the shore as to not arouse suspicion, but close enough to easily skid out. A load of lumber was delivered to the island and drew little attention. By Saturday, framing was complete for four walls and the floor of the building. Rafters were cut to length as were stair treads and stringers. Saturday morning, as the camp was changing over, the guides and crew floated the floor and walls into town on the camp barge while others skidded logs and floated them to the site where they were cut and nailed into cribs and the dock frame was laid. The barge pulled up to the new dock and planks were laid while the building frame was carried over them. Stringers were laid along pine logs to create the stairway and railings. Finally, the building sections were hauled up to the roadside and assembled and sheeted with planks. By dinner time, the roof was being shingled.



All this work did not exactly go unnoticed. The Provincial Police stopped and asked to see a permit, to which Willard replied, what permit. They warned sternly, “You can’t do this.” To which Willard replied, “It’s already done.”



Those phrases were to become commonplace relating to the dock at the corner. Over and again officials would say “You can’t do that.” Over and again Willard replied, “It’s already done.”



Eventually, tax bills arrived. Willard dutifully paid the tax bills on the tiny piece of land for which he had no title. After a few years, according to legend, the tax bills stopped arriving. Willard, not wanting to lose his little piece of land, made the trip to pay the taxes in person. He was surprised to learn that, since he had no deed, there was no need to pay taxes or, conversely, since he had been paying property taxes, he could be considered the owner of the property.



He was advised to complete a land use permit, which he promptly did.

Happy Friday!!

Hello and Happy Friday!!  Sorry the pace has slowed but with budget meetings and year end inventory, the past week has been a bit nuts.  I will be uploading stories to post every couple days or so for the next week.  I also will be working on the "other side" the Historic Impressions Blog.  I have been doing some editing and cleaning up those stories as well so drop in over there and re-visit a bit of Joliet history.

C

House Rules

Poker was a popular pastime in the evenings at the Camp at Gohere Bay. There were a unique set of House Rules for card games built on the idea was that everyone at the camp was a friend and, as such, nobody wanted to be left in a bad way and fights were to be avoided. Being on an island, there’s not a lot of space to keep feuding people separated.




A generator arrived at the Camp shortly after Willard took over, so there was electricity. However, the fuel tank held only about twelve hours worth of fuel. Once breakfast was out of the way and guests were out fishing, the generator was started to complete chores such as washing clothes etc. This also allowed Willard to catch up on the news on the camp radio over lunch. As guests returned, they would listen to news and, as the sun set, strings of electric lights brightened camp walkways and cabins.



After dinner, and a little dock casting, poker games began. All games ended at the same time, in the same way, when the generator ran out of fuel. While the generator sputtered and the lights dimmed, then surged, everybody reached for their lantern or flashlight. When the lights went out, the hand was finished with hand held lights then everyone headed back to their cabins.



Stakes were low, pennies and nickels, and to avoid confusion, all cash was equal. There was no exchange rate between Canadian and American money.



There was no standard game played in camp. Each player got to call his or her favorite game and it was played once around the table. Then the next player would start another game and so on. When the hour became late and there was fear of the sputtering of the generator, a round was played where each dealer called their own game. In this way, new games were shared.



One of the most equalizing rules was the ‘high spade split’ rule. For each winning hand, the pot was shared with the hand that held the highest spade in an active hand. This created two winners for nearly every pot. The exception would be if the winning hand also held the highest spade, in which case they won the entire pot. This kept more hands alive longer and more people in the game longer. This also shortened the lifespan of decks of cards as the Ace of Spades inevitably acquired a folded corner or crease that would give away its location.



There were more than a few nights when stakes began to escalate and tempers began to flare. Typically, Willard would excuse himself to tend to some errand or another and the generator would begin to sputter and the lights would dim and surge and people would light their lanterns or ready their flashlights for the rule was clear, when the generator ran out, the game was over.



C

Willard's Duty Free Exports

While not directly part of the Camp at Gohere Bay, Willard's Duty Free is the story of a companion business that became another local landmark. C

In the early 1960’s Willard hatched a scheme to improve his finances by getting into the luxury car business. His plan was to take advantage of various import and duty regulations to sell British luxury automobiles in Nestor Falls. He designed a simple but spacious building and identified a piece of land along the roadside in Nestor Falls.

At the time, the land was marshy and wet. He secured it for a low price, then had the crew remove a beaver dam downhill from the property to reduce the flooding. With the land dry, he drew a simple design on the back of an envelope for half a building. He showed it to the crew who shook their heads and asked where the rest of the drawing was. He simply said, “just turn this the other direction”.

The building went up quickly, it was on track to open just 30 days after the first load of lumber arrived when news came across the radio that nearly stopped the project halfway done. Tighter regulations were passed for Duty-Free and new limits were in place. Luxury cars were out. The crew laid down their hammers and headed to camp for lunch while Willard considered his options.

Back at camp, Willard sat in the converted icehouse that served as office and camp store. This where bait and fishing supplies were sold, along with candy bars and soda. He wondered what he was going to do with the massive building at the roadside. All that open space. He spent the afternoon sharing coffee and stories with the crew and the few guests who returned early from fishing, seeking a break from the intense July sun. After a while the conversation turned to the offseason, where Willard kept cash flowing selling Christmas trees and pottery. Then the idea came to him, he just needed to do in the summer what he did during the winter.

He quickly rounded up the crew and headed back to town, leaving Mary a list of telephone calls to make. The building was finished on Willard’s frantic schedule, and was ready to open in 30 days. Mary had secured deals with suppliers to begin selling porcelain good, woolens, shirts and other items. Eventually a Hudson Bay franchise would be secured and fuel pumps added.

Willard’s Duty Free became a thriving business. The location was good and attracted tour buses and families. Fishermen from the camps would buy gifts to ship home to their wives. Even the Harlem Globetrotters stopped by on a swing through Canada.

Willard’s Duty Free was a victim of it’s own success. Willard and Mary ran the store and lived on the roadside where they had built a small apartment at one end of the store, a similar space at the other end served as stock room and office. The end came on a bright sunny summer day. Mary fixed sandwiches for lunch and set them on the table, ready for a relaxing afternoon. At 9:00 that evening, the sandwiches sat, half-eaten and stale. Mary broke down in tears. She hadn’t come all this way to live life in a roadside gift shop. She longed for the peace and rhythm of the Camp.

By the end of the summer, the store was sold and Willard and Mary returned to the Camp at Gohere Bay.

Over time, the store became the Maple Leaf Gift Shop. The store sold souvenirs, china, linens, Hudson Bay and others. The building would change hands a few more times before the land was acquired by Nestor Falls Marine and the building razed.

A Guide's Life at Camp - The Early Days

Life for camp guides has changed along with the times and clientele. In the early days of the Camp, the clientele were wealthy game hunters and visiting Gohere Bay was akin to visiting the great hunting grounds of Africa or South America. Fishing was a complex sport as well in the days before nylon fishing line, snap swivel connectors, braided wire leaders, weedless baits and spin-casting reels.

In the 1920’s and 30’s fishing line was silk and needed to be dried thoroughly after each use. To this end, spikes were driven halfway into the logs on the outside of each guest cabin. After a day’s fishing, the guide would unwind the entire spool of each reel around the spikes to allow the line to dry. The following morning, prior to heading out, the entire spool would need to be rewound. The reels were also prone to backlash. The entire reel spun when casting and had to be slowed by pressure on the line with the thumb of the casting hand. This required concentration and practice. Press too hard and your cast would be short. Too little pressure or applying pressure too late and the spool would continue to spin and unload line at a rate faster than it was leaving the reel. The result was a tangled mess known as backlash which required patience, time and a keen eye to unravel. Often it would be easier to switch to another rod and reel combo, leaving the unraveling to the guide at the end of the day.

Outboard motors were common on Lake of the Woods by the 1920’s. These were a blessing and a curse. Most boats were not designed for the extra weight on the stern and water often washed over the transom, especially when backing or in high winds, though many motors had no reverse gear. This often required a leap of faith that the motor would start with the propeller spinning thus the boat had to be pointed away from docks or shoreline. If the motor failed to start, there were always paddles or oars on board.

Gas tanks were small and integral, attached to the motor, usually on the back behind the flywheel. Often a can of gas was carried along for refills, which became difficult in inclement weather. Starter ropes were a piece of cord with at knot at one end to engage the flywheel which was exposed atop the motor. Many amateurs lost pieces of loose fitting clothing or worse to the teeth of the flywheel. Neckties were a definite no-no. As the boats were not designed for motor power, they lacked spray rails which meant a guide spent his time being soaked as water splashed over the gunwales. An odd effect of the motor era was the wear of wooden ribs. As the guide sat in essentially one place for long periods, they would brace themselves with a foot against one of the wooden ribs. Invariably, the same rib, over and over. This produced wear and fatigue on these ribs which lead to early failure in many boats.

Eventually motors grew in horsepower and reliability. Boat design was typically a step behind. Spray rails were developed as speeds increased. Tiller mounted throttle became the norm and the ready-pull was introduced. The nose of the newer generation boats was higher to allow the motorized boat to tackle heavier waves. This meant guides had a harder time seeing over the nose or even over the heads of the members of their party. This was often dealt with by means of a thin wooden box. The guide would stow a hatchet or hand axe, knife and a couple common tools in a wooden box an inch or two deep. He would place this on the rearmost seat and sit atop the box to afford a better view ahead.

Each guide was assigned a locker from a bank in front of the Camp store. The locker was large enough to hold fishing rods, tackle boxes and cushions and raingear. Each morning the guide would rewind the line on the reels after dropping a fresh load of firewood on the steps of his party’s cabin. Then he would load the gear into the boat, gas the motor, collect his guide box from the kitchen and report for breakfast. The morning meal was typical camp food, the same as the guests, pancakes, eggs, bacon and sausage with coffee. The guide box contained all the essentials for a proper shore lunch. Canned potatoes, beans, fry pan, turner, utensils, plates, coffeepot and cups, cornflake crumbs or cracker meal and a can of canned meat, usually Spam or Treet, just in case. Guides took great pride in a battered, rusting can of meat as it meant they were successful in leading their party to a successful catch and fresh fish for shore lunch.

The guides took their meals at a long table that occupied the space between the lodge building and the old icehouse which became the store. There was a window at one end and a single light bulb over the table. The crew slid along the table on long benches and leaned against the logs after long days or restless nights. Guides were the crew for any odd jobs or maintenance at the camp. If camp was full, they were out with parties. If camp was empty, they could spend days repairing cabins, building or painting docks, fixing broken waterlines or patching leaky boats. There was always something to be done. They would often spend weekends or evenings cutting wood for fires or stuffing oakum between logs to keep insects and bats out.

In hunting season, the rhythm of the camp changed. Guides would rise early to set out bait at sites they had been priming all summer long. By leaving food at a particular spot, they would encourage moose, deer or bear to return when hungry. As the seasons turned and food became scarce, the animals returned to their reliable spot. Guides kept some baiting secret while others were very public knowledge. Garbage dumps were favorites of bears. Grassy meadows, cleared by fires or timber harvest provided tender grass for moose or deer. Beaver ponds and flooded creek beds provided shelter for ducks and geese. All summer the guides would spend their free time scouting these places and marking locations, each in their own way.

Guides lived in a bunkhouse atop the island. Twenty guides were not an unusual number at times during the forties. A typical party for fishing was four to a boat, though some preferred the privacy of two or three. They usually stayed at the camp for two to three weeks at a time, then take a weekend off to head home to families, taking their wages with them. Most of the men worked trap lines in the winter or cut timber or both. Some reported to the mines and others simply lived off the land. Many times guides would bring their wives to camp to work the cabins or as cooks. Some couples would work at different camps, the husband guiding in one place, the wife cooking in another. Once the children arrived, however, the wife usually stayed at home and worked growing vegetables or other jobs they could do at home.

The bunkhouse saw its share of card games and drinking. Guides did not mix with guests after hours and being intoxicated around the guests was grounds for dismissal. The occasional brawl was also not unheard of, though again, the guests were not to know, except by the black eyes and fat lips the following morning.

Many repeat guests had favorite guides and guides had favorite guests. They also had those they preferred not to see again. Many large parties required several guides and the individual pairings might vary by the day to spread the wealth of high tippers among the crew. Since tips were based on catch, if the group fished together, the order of boats would vary each day as the last boat to pass a spot usually had the best results and the first boat, the worst.

Large parties would also sometimes meet up for shore lunch. Each guide would play a particular role. One would head in early to start a fire and begin cleaning fish, another would come in later but stay in to clean up after. Guides and guests ate together on shore lunch, though guests always had first choice. This lead to a little conniving by guides when it came to serving up the fish. Northern Pike are notorious for the boniness of their fillets. They are large fish and produce large, inviting looking servings as well as large bones. Guides would cut the fillets toward the tail, leaving several large fillets and several smaller tail pieces. Guests would gravitate toward the larger pieces and the guides would be ‘left’ with the smaller, though nearly boneless, tails.

In the 1940’s, when Willard ran the camp, he brought the technique of ‘feather paddling’ to the guides. This involves the use of the paddle in small, circular motions to hold the boat in position or move it as needed without removing the paddle from the water. The technique required a little time to learn, but provided a peaceful setting for fishing as well as keeping the fuel bills down. Even after the advent of motor trolling, guides were required to shut down the motor upon arriving at their destination. The paddle went into the water and the motor did not start again until they were ready to leave. Before hiring, each candidate was instructed to guide their boat around the entire island without lifting the paddle from the water. The only time a guide was to take the paddle out of the water was to assist the guest with landing fish or retrieving bait caught between stones or in trees.

Over time, folks became more comfortable with the lake, motors became easier to operate and the luxury crown moved on. More guests were families or couples and wanted an independent experience. Gone were khaki slacks and shirts, lace-up boots and fishing hats, replaced by sneaker, cutoff jeans and baseball caps. Bass boats became all the rage with their outrageous horsepower, sleek designs and shallow draft. Depth finders and fish finders replaced guides with years of knowledge and experience with underwater topography. Guides now are an elite group with their own boats specializing in long day trips. Many fish alongside their parties and trolling motors are the norm. For the most part, jigs and minnows have replaced the massive casting baits of yesterday. Modern musky hunters will still toss out a big bucktail spinner, but a trip through Grandma’s old tackle box showed harnesses for frogs and baby ducks, rigging for chubs and jointed wood carvings nearly as big as some fish I’ve cleaned and fried, with treble hooks that make me nervous to handle.

Life in Gohere Bay has certainly changed in the last 90 years and one can only wonder what the next 90 years will bring.

Four Drowned Boat Accident Sabaskong Bay

The following is a transcript of an article from the Kenora Daily Miner, originally published November 9, 1932, regarding a boating accident near Nestor Falls and involving the owner of at least two camps in the area, Dennis Chabot.

Four Drowned Boat Accident Sabaskong Bay

Dennis Chabot, Einar Peterson and Two Children Lost – Mrs. Peterson Escapes

Wet, terrified and bewildered, a woman who for a night and a day was trapped on an isolated island without food, water or shelter brought word to Fort Frances Saturday, of the drowning of her husband and two daughters and their guide.
The victims were Einar Peterson, of Chicago, his two small daughters, and Dennis Chabot, former American actor and owner of a tourist resort at Sabaskong Bay.
Rescued by Indians passing in a canoe. Mrs. Einar Peterson was brought here half hysterical from a terrifying experience.
Accompanying her husband, their two young daughters and a guide, Mrs. Peterson left with the party Thursday night in an outboard motorboat for Dennis Chabot’s camp five miles from Nestor Falls, on the Lake of the Woods.
Heavy winds made it difficult for the small boat to force its way through the sweeping waves, Mrs. Peterson said, and suddenly the boat was swamped and the entire party thrown into the water.
Four Disappear
The woman managed to cling to the overturned boat but Peterson and Chabot attempted to swim each with one of the girls to shore. In the darkness, Mrs. Peterson said she saw all four suddenly disappear in the cold water. She never saw them after.
The boat finally floated shoreward and Mrs. Peterson, almost exhausted pulled herself up on a small island. All night long and the following day she was forced to remain in the cold shelter of a bush.
Passing Indians discovered her yesterday afternoon and brought her to another of Chabot’s camps from where news of the tragedy was relayed to Fort Frances.
The Petersons had come up from Chicago for a hunting excursion with Chabot, but they had not registered at the hotel and details of identification were lacking. The youngsters were said to have been about four and five years of age.
Chabot was on of the best known tourist camp operators on the Lake of the Woods. A former actor, he toured many states in winter, advertising the attractions of the Lake of the Woods region. He is believed to have been about 50 years old, and as far as is known his wife is the only surviving relative.
Provincial Constables K.A. Patterson and D. Hamilton, of Fort Frances, have gone to Sabaskong Bay to supervise dragging operations.

Cyclone Pointe

A driving rain slapped the old Swede’s faded oilcoat as the boat rounded the point. The putting and gurgling of the tiny outboard faded as the west wind roared. He hadn’t counted on rain. Truthfully he hadn’t counted on making this trip so late in the year. But since the boss was fronting him money for the trap line, he felt obligated. Directly in front of him, Mrs. Chabot, the bosses wife, swayed in the darkness as the wooden boat undulated with the roil of the waves. He only hoped the wind wouldn’t shift as they hit open water. Cyclone Pointe would be make or break.
Long ago he had learned the unpredictable nature of Lake of the Woods, an endless maze of islands and bays, blind inlets and creek beds. Jagged boulders, remnants of glaciers barely receded, lay just beneath the water’s surface. Winds changed direction at each bend, at your back one minute, in your face the next. Peaceful calm often changed to gale winds in the blink of an eye. Many were the times he spent an entire day in a peaceful cove, only to learn that others had lost their boats to the pounding waters.
Cyclone Pointe was the most unforgiving place in all of Sabaskong Bay. The channel widened for a three mile run to Wolf Island. A change in the wind could flip the tiny boat like a dried log. Last spring, the pounding waves had nearly swamped a steamboat. If they were lucky, the winds would be blowing down, allowing him to skirt the shoreline at the east edge of the bay. Considering the load of supplies, as well as the Chabot party, avoiding rough water was imperative.
He had tried to avoid the trip, but Mr. Chabot and his guests had stayed too long at the poker tables at Green’s Saloon. He tried to explain how he knew this time of year as the dead season on the lake. Nobody out there but bootleggers and Indians. Both drunk and senseless, may as well be dead anyway. But Chabot had a business. His guests, writer from Chicago and his wife, were looking to write the great adventure novel and figured the best way to do it was to live it. They would winter in Gohere Bay and emerge with their story of a harrowing winter in the great north woods. And Chabot would profit from the free publicity. For now, they shared the tiny boat. Mrs. Chabot in the seat facing the Swede, the two men in front of her and the writer’s wife in the bow seat.
The wind blew from the north as they passed Paradise Island, putting the wind at their backs. This provided some relief from the biting November cold. Running a hand over his face to wipe away the freezing rain, he opened his eyes in time to make out the silhouette of towering pine trees at the end of Jensen’s Island. He cut the tiller hard to the right and watched the boulders float slowly by. That was close. Too close.
He hated running the lake at night. The trees and rocks turned to subtle shades of grey, the water to a grainy black. On rainy nights, you were lucky to see a paddle in front of your face. The only way to navigate was from memory and the passage of time, a feeling.
The Swede patted his chest pocket looking for a cigarette but felt only cold November rain. As he watched Chabot and the writer passing a bottle of whiskey and animated conversation, he unconsciously rubbed his foot on the wooden ribbing of the boat's skeleton.
Like most of his ilk, Chabot fancied himself quite the sportsman. He was actually a mildly successful Vaudeville performer whose claim to fame was that he could play piano while standing on his head. He had fallen in love with the island camp on a fishing trip and bought it on a whim. The two men seemed oblivious to the rain. The Swede’s frozen fingers searched the remaining pockets of his raincoat but turned up only a handful of mushy tobacco and some soggy matches.
As the waves picked up a bit and began washing over the low transom, he tried to gauge how far they had traveled. He figured they should be about to Cyclone. They would be alright if the wind stayed at their backs, even with the water rolling in over the stern, he figured the boat could last until they passed Wolf Island. There he could hug the shoreline out of the wind. That would put him at the back of the camp, which sat on the tail of a large island at the mouth of Gohere Bay. The point doubled back to create a tiny but useless cove on the northern edge; useless because of the steep rise cut by advancing glaciers, giving a foreboding appearance from the cove. The camp was on the south side where the land melted into the smooth green water.
He couldn’t help but think the water wouldn’t be rolling in except for the newfangled outboard motor. All that extra weight hanging off the back of the boat was impractical. He thought of turning back, but figured they were about halfway to camp by now. The motor had a limited range due to the small fuel supply, about eight miles on a good day. From town to camp was just under six. Running against high winds and carrying extra baggage would shorten that.
The calculations were interrupted as the bow of the boat dipped and spun sideways, sending him sprawling against the gunwale. Scrambling for the tiller, he fell into the collar of Mrs. Chabot’s fur coat. Their eyes met briefly and even in the darkness he could see her fear. His stiff fingers fumbled for the length of rope that held his coat closed and doubled as the starter rope for the outboard motor. Freezing rain had iced the knot. Without the cord, he could not start the motor.
“Get the oars! The motor’s dead!” barked the old Swede. Chabot and the writer flipped duffel bags and crates to reach the oars, which were buried under supplies. The woodsman crawled to the middle of the boat, gauging the wind as he went. It was bad, blowing straight up Cyclone. Freezing rain gave way to a mix of snow and sleet as he leaned hard on the right oar, fighting to point the boat in the right direction. Wooden ribs groaned in protest as the hull flexed with each sideways roll. The waves came straight at the left side of the boat, rolling and breaking in foamy caps. He felt the boat skip sideways at each crest, while in the troughs the lake spilt over the gunwales, dragging them deeper into its icy grip.
Numb from the cold, he no longer felt the sting of wind or sleet in his face. He rowed hard against the gale. All they needed was little land to act as a break. Again he leaned hard on the right oar, arms aching, chest pounding, his hands no longer belonged to him. Ice caked his beard. A rush of wind drowned out the crack of hardwood as the bow spun into a rolling wave. Only when the lake swallowed him and stole his breath did he realize the boat was gone.
At the surface, he heard shouts above the wind and paddled toward them as best he could. A crack of lightning turned the sky to daytime brightness. To his left he saw Mrs. Chabot bobbing like driftwood on the waves, held afloat by the fur coat. Beyond her were shadows of towering pine trees. Holding the collar of her coat, he dragged her to shore and led her to a stand of evergreens where she settled against a rock, sheltered from the winds. Another flash of lightning revealed the rest of the party, clinging to duffel bags or pieces of the splintered hull. He waded back into the lake where the wind and the water carried the old Swede and the rest of the party away.

This is the story as I heard it growing up. About five years ago, I was able to track down newspaper articles and other information to clarify what really happened that November night in 1932. The final, and most intriguing discovery has been a connection to a descendant of the incident's only survivor, not Mrs. Chabot, but a Mrs. Peterson of the Chicago-Rockford area. That story will be coming soon.

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Arrival

It could be simply the effects of eleven straight hours of driving. It could be the mervous anticipation of the ear-splitting silence at night and the lack of urgency to act. Yet it feels like something more. The feeling begins somewhere in northern Minnesota, deep in Superior National Forest, along the Laurentian Divide, on that height of land on the rocky ground that splits the watershed between the Mississippi River Basin and the Arctic Watershed. It is a nervous tingle deep in my stomach mixed with an excited rush and is not to be confused with the feelings inspired by the stop at Perkin's in Duluth.

The feeling builds as my foot becomes heavier on the gas, winding beside railroad tracks, remnants of old stations, roadside stands and abandoned cottages dot the scenery. Rolling into Koochaching County, where the land flattens and the road straightens, the anticipation grows and familiar sights and smells abound; the onset of the taigal forest, the deep smell of pine and, eventually, the lingering mustiness of International Falls Paper Mill. Standing in line at the Delta-Sonic, as I have for as long as I can remember, the pungent smell of the pulp mill mixes with the cool brace of northern air and fresh evergreens. Even the smell of diesel and gasoline are welcome.

Under the canopy, men in shorts or fishing gear arrange luggage inside boats and pickups, women shepherd kids through the store for a round of road snacks and a general air of hurried friendliness reigns with calls of, "Heading up or back?" of "Where ya coming from, get anything?"

The tightness increases as we roll up the maze of streets to the border crossing. Signs for Duty-Free stores seem to get bigger and more garish every year. There's the excitement of driving on the train bridge, the ritual of the toll booth and the exchange with the border guards.

Border guards are a typically friendly sort, usually with a decent, if dry, sense of humor. Each border guard seems to have a different trick. For instance, there was a notorious guard who would reach in and dip his finger in the ash tray. While conducting his interview, he would roll the ashes in his fingers before bringing the mixture to his nose. He would then determine whether a further inspection was required.

Border guards are also aware of the innocence of children, often asking them whether dad brought along some fireworks to celebrate. Many a dad has been busted by their own kids at the border.

Driving carefully through the streets of Fort Frances before heading out toward Emo and points beyond, routine sets in. Waiting for the milestones, La Vallee, Finland, the 11 mile straight, Caliper Lake, Mather's innumerable Creeks and, finally, Nestor Falls.

Standing at the hub of Nestor Falls, the Government Dock, the tightness reaches a zenith. Legs become rubbery as the dust of the gravel lot mixes with the dampness of the lake. The rigid docks, the concrete boat ramp that is never quite steep enough for a good launch, the delibrate randomness of McCleod's cottages all increase the feeling. The oily odor of two-stroke exhaust cuts through the lake breezes with the sputtering of outboard motors.

All of this builds to a crescendo of nervous energy while unloading the car, piling belongings on the dock, then in the boat before casting off, the burbling of the outboard behind us, the rocking of the boat beneath us. Sea-legs that have lain dormant for months or years are re-awakened. A soft whoosh of water grows beneath the hull as we gather speed, the nose of the boat inching skyward before settling as we hydroplane through the glass-like calm of the sheltered bay. Suddenly,everything relaxes. As we round the red buoy and point the bow across the waters of Sabaskong toward Gohere Bay.

Evenings on Gohere Bay

Some of the best times at the Camp at Gohere Bay were the end of the day, once the chores were done, guests fed, dishes cleaned up and things began to wind down. As the air began to cool, we would grab a rod and some beer in a cooler and head off down to the end of the bay. The glacial topography combined with the tributary creeks give Gohere Bay a fascinating and diverse landscape. Hitting the rocky ledges we could get some walleye or the occasional northern pike, but the real circus was crappie. Weedbeds near the end of the bay dropped off into a sandy bottom creating a crappie hole which could entertain for hours. Minnows and jigs seemed to do the trick here. Sometimes a Mepps spinner with a fake minnow would work and I had a 'Vibra-Tail' minnow that was essentially a jig-head with a rubbery minnow shaped tail. As for the minnows, the fish seemed to prefer them a bit chewed up. After a while, you could practically drop down a bare hook and get a hit.

The sun would set lower and the empty bottles would accumulate in the bottom of the boat along with some decent sized fish. We would pick up some walleye and throw back some perch and every once in a while be totally caught off guard when a nice northern would grab a hook, quite the thrill if you were the one holding an ultra-light using 6 pound test line.

As the air cooled and darkness began to settle, we turned the boats for home. Unless you've experienced the calm and comforting feeling of returning to camp in the evening, you may not fully appreciate it. On the best nights, the water was smooth as glass and whooshing sound of water on the spray rails offset the drone of the Johnson 20. Breaking between the twin islands just off camp, the lights of the cabins came into view. The windows glowed the color of warm butter and peeked out between pine boughs. A string of light-bulbs ran from the store to the owner's cabin. And all of this was reflected in the still, cool waters of the lake.

We would dock near the fish cleaning house and begin the process of cleaning out boats and cleaning fish. The work was methodical, quick and accentuated by jokes and fish stories. When the work was done, and another day's meal was packed in the freezer, we sought refuge from mosquitoes indoors around card tables with cups of coffee, tea of hot chocolate, a peaceful end to a full day. There were discussions and debates about the day, the week, the year; plans for the next day, the next trip; until the lights went down for the night. The boats settled at the dock emitting a smooth glugg-ing sound as spray rails tapped the water, calls of wolves and loons echoed in the darkness and the whipporwill, that everyone swore was outside their window, all created the calming melody that set us to sleep. Even the drone of the generator played a part that seemed somehow to complete the tune of night time on Gohere Bay.

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