I wait through the long northern months for days like this, an early summer deer scout with my good buddy Matt.
There were several canoe-in locations I wanted to hit so we loaded Matt’s Pelican and hit the road. The fresh coffee from our local stop was almost too hot for the touch but went down smooth as the pavement gave way to gravel in our favorite destination; the Tamarac National Wildlife Refuge. We were searching water access points for hunting habitat without busting through cover from the road.
After a few miles Matt and I reached the Dike Road Access, turned onto the tightly wooded lane, and eased up to the boat landing of South Tamarac Lake. It’s an isolated destination on the south end of the Tamarac Refuge that offers a long view of undeveloped shoreline and patches of Wild Rice standing out of its watery seed-bed. A light south wind made for an easy paddle as we pointed the craft north, soaking in the morning warmth, nested geese, and shoreline dark green in the growth of summer foliage. If you can imagine a perfect Minnesota day, that was it, with clouds billowed up like cotton balls and patches of brilliant sky against the open wilderness setting.
Our canoe pushed past cattails and grass at the first landfall and beached with a soft thud. Immediately, we discovered deer trails along the water line. A stand of pines and hardwoods dissipated into a natural meadow with clumps of willow to create a unique blend of transition lines and deer bedding. After an hour hike of exploring we brushed some ground blinds along the pushed up berm, heaved from many seasons of lake-ice harassing the beach, and enjoyed our packed lunch under a shady oak. Daydreaming about living here in the 1930’s, building a log cabin, and trapping for a living (something most people who love the outdoors envision) mesmerized us but we finally packed up for the next leg of the journey.
Matt worked his way to the rear of the craft and I settled into my front perch. I grabbed my paddle and pushed off the soft bottom just past the grass-lined beach. In a moment the world shifted into slow motion. I was locked into a certain outcome, frozen, suspended in time and space, and finally released into the cool drink. The lake rose and I was deluged by the still chilled waters of June. Matt however, was able to step off from his higher back seat and only sustain wet boots. I jumped up from twelve inches of muddied bottom like a drenched cat; muck, weeds, and water dripping from me like a Northern Pike that had just made one last desperate lunge to the bottom before being hauled up.
As I stood in disbelief, a hysterical laughter echoed through the air. Matthew, oblivious to my consternation was embroiled in the spectacle and feeling pleased, I am sure, that he escaped a similar fate. A sizable disagreement soon ensued as to who was at fault. A debate that is still, and will probably always be, unresolved.
Undaunted, with another locale in our sights, we reorganized and paddled on despite my grumbling and Matt’s laughing.
It was a half hour jaunt to the other side and the exercise quickly warmed me. On a grassy slope we sat and drained the water from our boots, I hung my shirt and hoody up to dry, and Matt still chortled with a wry grin whenever he glanced my way. I scowled back with an incredulous stare. . .
I felt like Tom Sawyer for the next leg of the adventure, walking in the warm afternoon sun, shirtless, so my garments would dry hanging on a tree-limb in the breeze. We had landed on a 200 acre island that was connected to the mainland with a thick low bog and exposed to the lake on three sides. It had a feel of Skull Island from the King Kong movie. Desolate and eerie, with a thick cover of ferns throughout most of the terrain under a canopy of mature hardwoods. The ground was laced with game-trails but any significant buck sign was unnoticed. After a long exploratory trek we arrived back at the canoe and my slightly dried gear.
The Sun lowered and cast long shadows, with the first hints of an amber glow behind the western wood. We pushed the Pelican though 150 yards of lilly pads, that served as a barrier to our Skull Island, before hitting open water and a direct line back to the Dike Road Boat Access. Reminiscing on the day’s events generated a lot of laughs, well timed verbal jabs, and the start of a never-ending debate about the tipping event.
To this day, a good natured contention will still arise as to who should carry the blame for my dunking. My claim is that Matt is suspect, being the aft observer, and overstretched the reach.
Matt disagrees.
Peace,
