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
25.6.10
22.6.10
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
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
21.6.10
Willard's Duty Free Exports
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.
20.6.10
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.
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.
19.6.10
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.
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.
18.6.10
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.
C
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.
C
16.6.10
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.
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.
14.6.10
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.
C
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.
C
10.6.10
Welcome Liars
A smaller version travelled the country in the trunks that carried the Camp's marketing materials such as cabin photos, pictures of trophies from years past, the occasional mount and, for many years, a cinnamon bear rug. When setting up the trade shows, the sign was the last item placed. Everyone on the circuit recognized the sign and directions were often given based on it's location.
A competing camp tried for a little one-up-man-ship with a sign that read "WELCOME SUCKERS" but somehow folks didn't warm to it in quite the same way.
Today the poles are gone, as is the sign. I don't miss it unless I close my eyes, where I still see the green sign hanging between the white poles. I've heard my share of stories from some of the greatest sportsmen and storytellers to ever wet a line or bait a trap.
So, pull up a chair next to the stove, or a piece of rock on the shoreline. Feel free to join in the card game, we'll explain the house rules as they come up. And with all due respect, Welcome Liars.
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