There’s an old saying known only by those who make Michigan their home; “If you don’t like the weather, wait awhile.”
Archives for My Lifestyle
Northern Exposure
For more than forty years, I have had the privilege to use a rustic family cabin in the heart of Ontario’s Algoma District for outdoor adventure, fishing, hunting and hiding. The “camp” is located far from civilization. It doesn’t have electricity, plumbing or telephones. But it does offer wilderness, wildlife, beauty and serenity.
It’s an annual event to journey north at least once each winter to “play in the snow.” This year was no exception. We had our fingers crossed that the snow and ice we found would still be there the second week in March. We weren’t disappointed.
Winter visits to camp have additional challenges. The access roads aren’t plowed, so all gear must be “packed in” from the main road a half mile away. This usually involves strapping on snow shoes to “blaze a trail” through several feet of the white stuff to provide a path for the snowmobiles. Experience has proven this to be a necessary step. Have you ever gotten a snowmobile stuck in waist deep snow? I have. With the snow shoes still on, we tramp walking paths to the woodshed, outhouse and propane tanks. By the next morning they firm up enough to navigate in your moccasins.
The first order of business inside the camp is heat. A Dutch West airtight wood stove does a great job (especially when “Pyrone” is stoking it). Within the hour, coats and gloves come off and within three hours you’re in shirtsleeves. Once the gas is on and the kitchen stove, refrigerator and propane lights are on it’s time to focus on water. Summertime is easy, we pump lake water up to a holding tank that feeds the kitchen and bathroom sinks. In winter, we have to cut a hole in the ice and carry seven gallon jugs of water back for cooking, drinking and cleaning. It certainly helps you appreciate the challenges faced by our ancestors!
Why do we do it, you ask? Adventure! Too, there is a satisfaction that comes with besting the elements and still finding comfort. Besides, the fishing is great!
The Jelly Jar
“Every man should be blessed with a good bird dog at least once in his life.”
I consider myself blessed.
We had arrived at our “base camp” the previous day. Base camp is an old family cabin on a lake smack in the middle of the finest Brook Trout country in all of Canada. It’s also surrounded by 60 miles of pure wilderness chock full of ruffed grouse. It was the usual complement; three hunters, two dogs, a case of ammo and a Kawasaki Mule to carry us and our gear down a myriad of overgrown lumber trails that crisscross Algoma for the next three days.
Our dogs are shorthairs. Moose and Orvis; a male and female perfectly matched for this style of hunt and comfortable working together after many seasons of scouring the “bush.” Moose is the veteran. All liver and muscle with an obsession for birds and no tolerance for missed shots. Orvis is more forgiving, but no less committed to the hunt.
One of our party each year is a lifelong friend who always brought along “ol’ Grand Dads” 410. It looked every bit of its 80 years. For the safety of all, I would loan him a spare 20 gauge 686 that I bring along as back-up. An unfortunate “misstep” during the last year’s hunt marred the stock. Now, Tim is well meaning but prone to accidents. For years I have served his beverages when he visits the house in an old jelly jar because he couldn’t be trusted with fine crystal. Apparently, a fine shotgun is no exception. So, this year I bought the cheapest 20 gauge shotgun I could find. It was a used Russian made double trigger side by side that was built like a brick and could survive any abuse. This would be my hunting “jelly jar.” We all had a good laugh at Tim’s expense.
It was opening morning of grouse season. Unremarkable, except in Northern Ontario, that means the conditions are often less than ideal for bird hunting. The foliage is still full with only a hint of the coming fall colors and temperatures more conducive to T-shirts and shorts than flannels and jackets. Flushes are heard but not seen. Even with a good bird dog, the opportunity for a clear shot is rare.
We had just walked a good ten miles of trail with only a couple of flushes and no birds to show for the effort. The sky was cloudless and the sun shown bright. We were stripped shirtless with only our blaze orange vests covering our torsos. It was time to break for a snack and refreshments. Dogs included.
We stopped alongside a dead fallen old growth white pine more than four feet in diameter. It hinted at what once was. But, that ancient forest is now replaced by a tangled mix of spruce, maple and birch that grows so thick along the trail that only the birds and the dogs can move through it.
Moose and Orvis had worked hard all morning and gladly lapped a bowl of water and dog treats before finding some shade to lie down. We unloaded and racked our guns. The three of us sat down with the massive pine log as a back rest for a leisurely lunch. Soon our conversation turned to the “jelly jar” and the fact that it had never been fired. How could we be sure it worked? It was time it was tested.
Brad rose and pulled the gun from the rack and loaded a shell. Moose jumped to his feet thinking it was time to renew the hunt. Brad shouldered the “jelly jar” and took aim into the trees along the trail firing one shot. Moose dashed into the brush in the direction of the shot believing Brad had downed a bird. Moose knew Brad rarely missed.
We could hear Moose thrashing around in the brush frantically searching for the kill. I called out “no bird” and Moose returned to the trail to find the three of us laughing at his misguided effort. He stood for a moment, taking in the scene. He looked each of us in the eyes and now knew he was the object of our laughter. Turning, he ran back into the brush. After what seemed like only seconds, he came back out of the woods and marched straight up to Brad. Dropping a 20 gauge wad at his feet he stepped back and glared at the three of us. Who’s laughing now?
The following season, Tim bought himself a fine 20 gauge SKB over/under and the “jelly jar” is now permanently retired to the gun safe as a reminder of good times gone but not forgotten.
Today, Moose is gone, too. But in his nearly sixteen years, his passion for the hunt was both legendary and unwavering. He’s left me with scores of remarkable and unforgettable memories. As you can see, I am blessed.