North of 8
Funny Tales By Bob Boyd "Geezer Bob"
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Alaska on Floats, Departure, Day 1 |
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Eventually the Eagle would be given the name IHOP for the way it was moving around on the ground.
Recently our neighbor Glen (Buzz Saw) called and reported that he had an adult Eagle sitting in his front yard and that it was acting like it was hurt. Doing the best sneak job I could muster and using large trees to conceal my approach I got to within about 50 feet of the Eagle, peeking out from around the last tree the Eagle was looking directly at me. I guess my stealthy approach was noticed from the beginning but to my surprise the Eagle just looked at me and made no effort to fly. I circled around and joined Buzz Saw on his deck watching the bird.
The majority of the time it would just lay on its side and occasionally try to stand up and hop around. Most healthy eagles would have flown away long before now so this had to be the injured Eagle that others on the lake had been reporting and its behavior was unlike any of the many Bald Eagles that we have on our lake.
I called the Raptor Center at the University of Minnesota and a short time after leaving a message about our situation they contacted me and said that a representative from the raptor center would be getting in touch with us. Rubin, a volunteer with the raptor center living in Franconia, Minnesota, called and after relating to him our story and location he said he would be out in about an hour.
My wife, Lorraine and I joined Buzz Saw on his deck watching IHOP and waiting for Rubin’s arrival. I proposed that the most embarrassing thing that could happen is that just before his arrival the Eagle would fly off. Well, guess what, five minutes before Rubin arrived the Eagle took off and perched high up in a nearby tree.
As Rubin and company watched, the Eagle swopped down and with one leg partially hanging down glided over to our yard and landed on the grass about 300 feet away. Now after we relocated and standing about 50 feet away from the Eagle, Rubin felt that it was worth a try to capture him. “What do you say, do you want to give it a try?” Rubin asked me. “Sure count me in,” I excitedly responded. Rubin gave me a small white towel and told me to “Move around in front of him and keep his attention and I’ll sneak up from behind and try to net him.”
My job was to cover the Eagle’s eyes after Rubin netted him and then he would secure the talons. It did not escape my attention that while Rubin had on a pair of thick welding gloves that went up to his elbows all I had was my bare hands and this little white towel.
The Eagle was not fooled by our plan and took off after we moved only a few feet and perched back up in a tree. Rubin suggested that we call off our attempt to capture the bird and see what the future brings. He indicated that for our Eagle with a potential injury to the leg, infection may be the greatest danger and the prognosis may not be all that good.
Eventually the Eagle would be given the name IHOP for the way it was moving around on the ground.
IHOP was captured three weeks later by Rubin and lake resident JimWiden. I asked Jim to write up his story about the capture. His story follows:
The Eagle rescue attempt took place the morning of July 29th off the west side of Bald Eagle Island. I was out fishing Friday morning and noticed an eagle on the shore. I thought maybe that was the eagle that you emailed people on the lake about that was injured. I got about 20 yards from him and the eagle sat quietly not moving and wasn't frightened by my presence. So, I stopped fishing and stopped by your lake home only to learn that you were out of town for the weekend. But Lorraine was so kind to get me the name and phone number of the volunteer from the raptor center.
So, I decided to go back home and pick up my wife Kathie and go back out to the island and see if the eagle was still there and it was. I then called, on my cell phone, Rubin the volunteer and told him the story. He then got permission from the raptor center to come out to Bone Lake and attempt the rescue of the eagle. He arrived about an hour later and we got on board our pontoon and headed back to the island. When we got there the eagle was no longer at the same spot. Rubin suggested that we walk around and see if the eagle was still on the ground some where, and sure enough he was about 30 yards back from where I originally saw him. Rubin was armed with a big net and leather gloves and said, “Jim you just stand there”. Rubin took off running and caught him in his first swing of the net. We then immediately returned to our lake home put the eagle in a crate and then Rubin left to deliver the eagle to the Raptor Center.
Before leaving Rubin left us with the phone numbers and information to use when calling the Raptor Center to check on the Bone Lake eagle but since it was Friday he told us to wait until Monday or Tuesday of the following week. We did call back on Tuesday and learned the sad news that he did not make it through the night. We were very hopeful that the eagle could have been return to Bone Lake, it was a great experience but it had a sad ending.
“I have some venison chili in the fridge, how about a little?” Kevin volunteered. “Sure I’ll have a bowl,” Earl responded needing a little more chow to go along with his sandwich. It was just a quiet late fall lunch break taken by Kevin and his cousin Earl in Kevin’s horse barn. Kevin’s wife Cathy had made up a bunch of venison chili from a deer that Kevin had shot earlier that fall and had put it away in the refrigerator.
With Kevin and his cousin Earl enthusiastically consuming venison chili in Kevin’s horse barn, Kevin’s wife Cathy strolled on in. “Hi guys, what you are eating?” “Some of the chili you made, I found it in the refrigerator” Kevin said. “Good stuff,” Earl chimed in. “Where did you guys get the chili?” Cathy inquired. “From the fridge right here,” Kevin said. “That’s the venison chili from last year, how’s it taste?” she said with a smile. “I scraped some of the weird looking stuff off the top and it isn’t half bad. Hey Earl do you want some more chili?” Kevin said. “No, thanks,” Earl sputtered. It turns out that the venison chili Cathy had made from Kevin’s deer that he shot this fall is still in the refrigerator in the house and not in the refrigerator in the barn!
Kevin was one of the builders that had helped construct our new home on Bone Lake a few years ago and we have continued our friendship ever since. I had joined Kevin and the rest of the building crew during several lunch breaks and had made a few observations of Kevin’s eating habits. Kevin, like most workers, kept his lunch in his truck and unlike others didn’t make much use of a cooler – glove compartment, dash, front seat, back seat - Kevin pretty much kept his lunch scattered around the inside of the truck.
Mickey’s doughnuts were a favorite snack for breaks and often the bag was found on the floor or stashed under the front seat of the truck. If you have a family member or friend that is in the construction business you know that their truck is like a second home and they know where every tool and food item is located and scattered throughout the vehicle.
On one occasion I watched as Kevin grabbed a container off the dash of his truck and started to chow down on the contents. “What have you got there?” I said. “Some kind of casserole,” he mumbled between bites. “How long has it been sitting in the sun on the dash?” I queried. I think only about a week or so,” he responded.
I tried to keep our dog Maggie from licking up the leftovers in any bowls that Kevin might sit on the ground for her to clean up. Kevin’s dog Shawnee had more luck with his leftover food and didn’t show any ill effects, but I wasn’t taking any chances with Maggie. Maggie did get accustomed to the sound of a bag of Mickey’s doughnuts being open up from several feet away and would come on the run.
Son Dave wasn’t thinking about venison chili a couple of years ago when a late fall buck took issue with his presence. With a cold, gusty north wind at his back and scanning the sky for late season goldeneyes and bluebills an uneasy feeling came over him. Crouched down in the reeds on the rocky tip of Skull Island, a look over his shoulder revealed a whitetail buck starring at him. The buck being in full rut was not happy with Dave being on his turf and intended to rid Skull Island of this intruder. Head down and snorting the buck advanced on Dave. Standing up waving his arms and hollering didn’t change the old buck’s determination. After a series of the buck advancing and Dave’s retreating movements, he was finally backed into the water up to his waist.
According to Dave, he had “enough of this crap” and fired a round of number four steel duck loads past the nose of the angry buck. The negotiations for the island turf were settled as the buck bounded off into the woods.
DEER CHILI
3 lbs. deer burger (with suet)
1 lg. onion (chopped)
1 pack Williams chili seasoning mix
1 tsp. salt
1 can diced Ro-Tel (Mexican food section)
1 lg. can tomato sauce 1 can red beans (drained)
In a stew pot or Dutch oven, cook deer burger and onion together until deer burger is done. Pour off excess grease. Stir in chili seasoning mix, salt, diced Ro-Tel, beans and tomato sauce. Stirring frequently, bring just to a boil. Reduce heat; simmer for 15 to 20 minutes.
Joe and Geezer Bob at the float plane pond in Fairbanks
Awaken by the lights, I looked through my blurry eyes at Joe’s bed across the room, “what’s up,” I said. “I have been thinking about going through U.S. customs and getting fuel at Northway,” he responded.
“What time is it?” “4:30 a.m.” That’s when I drifted off to sleep again. “Hey, Bob, you ready to go?” I looked over at Joe who was fully dressed and sitting on the edge of his bed at 6:00 a.m. “OK, let’s do it,” I said, as I crawled out of bed.
The Bonanza Hotel in Whitehorse Yukon had been our haven for the night and now it was time to start the final leg of our adventure, delivering the Super Cub to its new owner in Fairbanks. We took a taxi out to the float plane base on the Yukon River where we had the Cub tied up for the evening, called flight service, checked the weather, filed a flight plan for Northway Alaska 280 miles away and took off at 8:25 a.m.
About 30 minutes into our flight the engine on the Cub started to run rough, Joe pulled on the carburetor heat for a few minutes and the engine smoothed out. During the next hour or so Joe has to occasionally use the carburetor heat to clear out what seems to be ice forming in the carburetor.
As we continue to follow the Alaskan highway our engine gremlins are over shadowed by the beauty of the Wrangell Saint Elias Mountains just to the west of our route and 43 mile long Kluane Lake under our wings.
With a nice tailwind and the GPS showing a blistering 120 mph ground speed the peaceful ride was interrupted by a loud backfire as the engine started to quit after 2 hours of running on the left fuel tank. No problem, Joe just switched to the right fuel tank. But for a couple of seconds, it’s amazing how much adrenalin can get pumped through the human body.
We crossed over the Yukon Alaska border at 10:08 a.m. on what looks like an easy final day for our journey to Fairbanks. Joe radioed Northway that we were about 30 minutes out from our arrival on Yarger Lake near the airport and that we needed customs and fuel. We landed on Yarger Lake at 10:30 a.m. after 3 hours of flying time and 280 miles. Personnel from the Northway airport brought us fuel in several 5 gallon jugs loaded in the back of their pick up truck. We politely waited for the customs agent to check out our paperwork before transferring fuel to our airplane.
Northway has a population of 105 mostly Athabaskan natives. There is a 5100 ft runway at the airport that was built to support a World War II defense supply system to Alaska and construction of the Alcan Highway.
Joe called Fairbanks on his satellite phone to file a flight plan and check on the current weather.
The flight service reported VFR weather at Fairbanks but Delta Junction which is a little more than half way to Fairbanks was reporting lowering ceilings and light rain, still VFR - but worth noting. We departed Yarger Lake for Fairbanks at 12:35 p.m. only 232 miles away and at the end of our journey.
The flight service personnel were accurate in their weather forecast as now we are cruising below a 700 ft ceiling in light rain just south of Delta Junction. A few miles north of Delta junction is the confluence of the Tanana and Delta rivers and over this area we are now definitely scud running in light rain. Joe guided the Cub over to the right side of the Richardson highway (Alaska Highway) and just above the power lines on our side of the road so we wouldn’t interfere with an airplane that might be coming the other way.
Our carburetor icing problem from earlier in the morning is still a nagging problem but our main focus right now is outside the windshield as the road ahead of us disappeared into the rain. Joe maneuvered the Cub over and down low on the Tanana River that has been near the highway for the last several miles and I watched out the side window as the road evaporated up into the fog.
Fairbanks over the radio was still reporting minimum VFR conditions as we pressed on with a very close up view of the river. Déjà Vu …..It is hard to believe but here we are in the exact same situation and location 13 years after our first flight to Alaska in Joe’s PA12. We are down on the deck headed for Fairbanks over the Tanana River in marginal flying conditions the only difference is that in 1990 we had poor visibility with dense smoke from forest fires.
Out over the flats south of Fairbanks the ceiling increased to minimum VFR conditions in light rain.
Joe radioed Fairbanks approach control; they assigned us a transponder code number and vectored us in until we had the airport in sight. Joe eased the Cub down on the float plane pond at Fairbanks at 3:25 p.m. after an exciting 2 hour and 50 minute flight. Right after landing, the flight route from Northway to Fairbanks was closed to VFR traffic because of low ceilings and freezing rain.
John Zarling the owner of the Super Cub had been in the flight service listening over their radio to our approach into Fairbanks. After we landed he drove over to the shore of the floatplane pond and showed us where to tie up, still in the rain -- 2690 miles in five days, 30 hours and 40 minutes of flight time, average ground speed 87.6 mph.
John invited us to stay overnight at his home In Fairbanks and later that same evening took us out to eat at the Great Alaska Salmon Bake. Back at John’s home we debriefed him about our flight and we all shared flying stories until late in the evening.
The next day after touring the airport John sent us on our way home via commercial airlines, using his banked frequent flyer miles from Fairbanks to Anchorage to Portland to Denver to Minneapolis.
We thank you God for a safe flight and thank you, John, for the opportunity.
Geezer Bob
We climbed into the front seat of his pick up truck along with his 40-pound dog named Sam.
“Well that’s not good” Joel said, “yeah I know” I responded as the Cub’s idling engine quit running just before takeoff from Footner Lake. Our trusty steed has developed a “hitch in her get along”, in aviation terms one spark plug is not quite up to snuff and the engine is missing a little bit. I apologize for getting so technical. After another engine run up to clear the fouled plug, we took off and circled the lake a few times until the engine decided to start purring like a kitten.
Goodbye to High Level Alberta and now we are headed for Parker Lake near Fort Nelson British Columbia 205 miles away. The poor weather of yesterday has been replaced by clear skies and light winds as we cruise over gas and oil wells near the B.C. border.
Flaring out from a 60 mph final approach, Joel eased the Cub down on Parker Lake after 2 hours and 20 minutes of flying time. We parked next to an old dock and refueled with the 22 gallons of fuel we carried in jugs stored in the floats and added a quart of oil to the engine. While Joel was busy with the Cub I made a few casts for fish but no luck.
Fort Nelson was established first as a Hudson Bay Trading Post in 1805 and named after Admiral Nelson of the British Navy. Fort Nelson remained a small outpost until the US Army arrived in early 1942. They named Fort Nelson, “Zero”, because on their maps Fort Nelson was the beginning of two very important roads: the Alaska highway leading to Delta Junction Alaska and the other to Fort Simpson, Northwest Territories (now called the Liard Highway, part of the Deh Cho Route). The Fort Simpson, Mackenzie River Route was an alternate in the event of Japanese attack on the Alaska Highway.
Airborne now at 3,700 feet over the Liard River headed for our next stop, Watson Lake 250 miles away.
Our plan is to follow the Liard River until we intercept the Alaska Highway and follow that to Watson Lake. We reasoned that if we had mechanical problems we could skid it in on the highway then at least somebody would find us instead of ditching out in the boonies and disappearing.
Up to 6,000 feet now the highest of the trip, we spotted a few sheep clinging to some rocky slopes.
I listened intently to a conversation over the radio between two aircraft, one of which was lost and reporting that he was currently following a river but didn’t know where he was. The lost pilot was on his way from Dawson Creek to Fort Nelson when he lost his bearings.
Joel and I had been in that area on a previous trip so I dug out a map and tried too help him sort out where he was at. Later he contacted Fort Nelson on the emergency frequency and they directed him safely in.
After a three-hour flight, we landed on Watson Lake in the Yukon, taxied up to an outfitters dock and refueled. On the Alaska Highway in the southeastern corner of the territory, Watson is a regional and transportation center and is the Yukon’s third largest community. What began as a fish camp and small airstrip boomed during the construction of the Alaska Highway, when thousands of US Army soldiers arrived to build this renowned roadway.
Our next stop Whitehorse, Yukon will probably be our last for the day; besides getting tired, we would arrive too late for U.S. customs at Northway Alaska. After taking off from Watson Lake, a Beech 18 aircraft reported over the radio that there was a thunderstorm with lightning ahead of us and currently located directly over the Alaska Highway that we have been following. We gave the storm a wide berth by climbing back up to 6,000 feet and crossing a ridge before getting back on to our course near the highway.
I broke out the in-flight lunch composed of three basic food groups; crackers and cheese, apples and snickers. (Ok, four food groups.)
About 3 hours later, we landed on the world famous Yukon River at Whitehorse, after a 300 mile flight.
We tied up to the float plane base, refueled the Cub and Paul Douglas (not the weather guy) who helped us with fuel volunteered to give us a ride into town. We climbed into the front seat of his pick up truck along with his 40-pound dog named Sam. I was in the middle and Sam, with his dirty feet, decided to ride in my lap. But he was a nice dog and we were getting a free ride so it was worth it.
We didn’t need anything fancy to stay in for the night so Paul dropped us off at the Bonanza hotel; we checked in and got a small room with two even smaller beds. A little rest, a shower and now it’s time see the sights of Whitehorse.
Whitehorse is the capital of Yukon and with 26,000 residents it is home to more than half the entire population of Yukon. Weaving our way through the hustling tourists it looks like they represent every country on the planet. Whitehorse is just south of the Lake Labarge of Jack London fame. “There on the marge of Lake Labarge they cremated Sam McGee” That guy!!
We chowed down at Sam (not the dog) and Andy’s, a Mexican restaurant and another surprise for me, I didn’t know that Joel liked Mexican food. Afterwards we pounded down a couple of peanut buster parfaits at the local DQ, making up for our skimpy in-flight snacks.
Whitehorse is an exciting city and a longer stay would have been welcomed but we were on a mission to deliver the Cub to Fairbanks, Alaska in one piece and in a reasonable amount of time. Time to catch some shut eye.
End of day 4. Good night!
Geezer Bob
The town of High Level marks the northern extent of the Peace River Country and has some of the northern most lands suited for agriculture in Canada. It is surrounded to the north and west by muskeg tundra. Located 157 miles north of the Peace River on the Mackenzie Highway and about halfway between Edmonton and Yellowknife, this vibrant community has a population of approximately 3,650.
The population of High Level multiplies in the winter when the oil companies venture out on the frozen muskeg to explore for new oil reserves.
Canada is the largest single source of oil imported into the United States. Much of the oil comes from the area surrounding High Level which is known for its oil reserves and forests.
After our arrival at Footner Lake last night, we fueled up the Cub and put 22 gallons of gas in the empty fuel cans that we have been storing in the floats. Our next stop is Parker Lake near Ft. Nelson British Columbia 205 miles away. There is no fuel available there so after landing we will use the fuel in the cans to refuel the Cub and continue on. This is a common practice when flying in remote areas.
Today, we avoided a potential disaster that at best could have ended up with a downed, damaged aircraft and at worst; somebody else would be writing this story.
We rolled out of the sack early as usual after a good nights sleep at the Flamingo Hotel and hitched a ride to the High Level airport. We walked into the Flight Service at the airport to check on the weather and file a flight plan for Ft. Nelson. The Flight Service personnel were reporting fog and a 300 ft. ceiling at Ft. Nelson, but here at High Level the weather was fine and above VFR minimums. The Flight Service expected the Ft. Nelson weather to improve throughout the day so we decided to wait and do a little hangar flying which simply means lollygag (where did that word come from?) around on the ground and talk about being up in the air.
The fuel manager at the airport was another one of several very friendly and helpful Canadians that we encountered along our way and we spent several hours jawing with Ash. (Don’t remember his last name). There was a helicopter accident near the airport just before we landed last night. The helicopter had equipment in a sling suspended underneath it when it went down; the pilot was injured but survived.
In Canada every aircraft is required to carry on board survival equipment and Ash wanted to know how we dealt with that requirement. Joel and I each wear life jackets when in the aircraft, in an emergency they are inflated by discharging Co2 cylinders, mine is a suspender style and Joel’s is a complete life vest with zip up pockets. Joel and I have discussed and agreed on emergency plans in the event they we have to ditch the aircraft in the water or the in the woods.
My life jacket only supports me but Joel’s; well here is what he has located in his life vest - Satellite radio double bagged in zip locks bags, 4 power bars, water purification tablets, 2 quart size zip lock bags to hold water, signal mirror, smoke flares, a small cord saw, small bottle of 100% Deet, parachute cord, water proof matches, compass, aspirin, cigarette lighter, 2 garbage bags (emergency rain gear), spare Co2 cylinder for the life jacket but according to Joel “with all this stuff hanging on me if the first one doesn’t go off, I’m headed straight to the bottom”!
Another piece of survival equipment is something we call a grab bag (sleeping bag stuff sack) and is right behind my back on top of the rest of our equipment. If I can grab it in a hurry on my way out, it contains; Space blanket, leather gloves, small coil of rope, rain gear, flare gun and extra flares, 1 mre, first aid kit, flash light, head nets and a small hatchet.
After several discussions with the Flight Service personnel during the day regarding the weather at Fort Nelson it was predicted to improve to VFR conditions later in the afternoon. Ft. Nelson is 205 miles away and about 2 ½ hours flying time and there were different opinions about the forecast amongst the Flight Service personnel, mostly if the weather would remain good enough for us to get to Ft. Nelson before it deteriorated. The final decision to leave rests with the pilot or pilots of the aircraft and Joel and I have had to make decisions before regarding uncertain weather conditions. Almost always if we have to think and debate very long about if should we go or not, we don’t go.
We decided to stay in town again tonight so we walked down to the Cub tied up to the dock on Footner Lake to get our bags and by the time we walked back to the airport the wind was blowing gale force and the airport was closed to VFR flight. (The weather turned really ugly). We checked with Flight Service and they reported thunderstorms near Ft. Nelson tops at 37,000 feet and VFR flight in the area was canceled. If we would have left when the weather was ok we would have been caught in between High Level and Ft. Nelson with virtually no place to land in 205 miles and both escape routes closed up. My diary records that there was significant learning here with this experience. (Understatement!)
Got a ride back to the Flamingo Hotel, checked in to a different room this time, unpacked, relaxed, then went down to the hotel restaurant for some soup, blueberry pie and ice cream. Zero miles today but we are safe on the ground!
End of day 3 Good night
Geezer Bob
Alaska on Floats, Departure, Day 2
As usual we got up early this morning and said goodbye to the Kikiwak Inn on the Cree Indian reservation at The Pas. We checked the weather by calling Canadian flight service and it looks like we may have to head a little farther to the North to get around some storms to the West of our route.
We hitched a ride to the airport with Rod King, a friend of our Cubs owner, John Zarling. Rod works for the U.S Wildlife Service and along with his pilot are up here counting ducks.
We split an orange and an apple, our usual breakfast while we pre-flighted the Cub. One meal in the evening is all that we eat except for a few snacks along the way. Bathroom facilities are some what limited when flying a small aircraft over hundreds of miles of Canadian wilderness. As we taxied out Joel notice that one of the water rudders on the floats wouldn’t go all the way down causing a partial loss of steering on the water but no problem once in the air.
Airborne and now headed for La Ronge Saskatchewan 187 miles away, doing a little scud running below a 700 ft. ceiling in light rain. Just as we crossed into Saskatchewan the nuts, washers, rocks and other debris that were vibrating past my feet under the floor boards yesterday have been replaced by water. I reported this to my trusty pilot over the head set and he responded “just use a knife and cut a hole in the belly”. He was kidding, sort of, anyway by the time I found my knife the water had found a drain hole some where and disappeared.
Because of a headwind from the storm to the West we are plodding along at 67 mph ground speed and if we were flying over the freeway on the way to Duluth the automobile traffic would be passing us by.
We landed at La Ronge Saskatchewan after 2 hours and 30 minutes flying time, tied up to a dock and refueled. La Ronge is the largest settlement in northern Saskatchewan with a community of 2,700 residents plus 2,000 members of the Lac La Ronge First Nation, bordering the town.
Mort Harbicht, a local pilot and fellow Cessna 170 owner, helped us fixed up the water rudder. With a little ingenuity, a small piece of rubber rope and 2 hose clamps, the water rudder now works as good as new. Try that on a 747! With the weather clearing up we filed a flight plan and headed for Buffalo Narrows 136 miles away. I spent some time looking out the window at what was left of a large burn where a fire had devastated a vast section of Boreal forest and I would guess just eventually burned itself out. It was easy to see with a brown, black stain against the carpet of green forest.
We landed at Buffalo Narrows after 1 hour and 46 minutes of an uneventful flight over hundreds of square miles of Canadian Taiga. Buffalo Narrows was founded in the early 20th century as a trapping, mink ranching and fishing settlement by Scandinavian traders. It is now a community of about 1300 people with tourism, logging and fishing being its main economic activities.
We taxied down river a short ways through several boats in a fishing contest and fueled up from a local outfitter. One of the boats was using a rock for an anchor and when they tossed it out the rock kept going minus the rope. They are not using a 20 ft. Ranger bass boats up here!
Filed a flight plan for Ft. McMurray Alberta 127 miles away and departed (took off). I broke out the in flight snacks, crackers, cheese wiz and a couple of little snickers. We did drink our share of water to keep hydrated and to stay on top of our game.
We have traveled far enough North to get above a storm front that is laid out East to West in northern Canada and now we have nice weather on the north side of it. Our water rudder fix seems to be holding up good and nothing strange has vibrated past my feet in awhile.
Our landing approach brought us over a high ridge and we quickly dropped down over a fast flowing section of the Clearwater River, gliding quietly over the heads of several people spending a Sunday afternoon on a sandy beach. We touched down on a float plane pond sandwiched between the Clearwater River and the Athabasca River at Ft. McMurray Alberta after 1 hour and 38 minutes flying time.
Fort McMurray is considered the heart of one of Alberta's (and Canada's) major hubs of oil production, located near the Athabasca oil sands and home to 76,000 residents.
We fueled up, checked weather, filed a flight plan for High Level Alberta 252 miles away, our last stop for the day and departed. We have a line of thunderstorms to the West but Flight Service thought we should get to High Level ahead of them.
Flying at 1500 ft., we have just crossed the Birch Mountains south of the Wood Buffalo National Park where the only remaining wild Wood Buffalo are located. Joel decided that this was the time to accomplish one of his goals on this trip so we descended to 50 ft. above the ground and flew the next 50 miles just above the tree tops chasing our shadow from the late afternoon sun.
At 7:45 p.m., and after 2 hours and 40 minutes, we landed on Footner Lake next to the High Level Airport and tied up to the dock.
702 long miles today on crackers, cheese, half an orange and water. Caught a ride into town checked into the Flamingo hotel and crashed (not a good word...) with 1160 miles to go.
End of day 2. Goodnight!
Geezer Bob
Alaska on Floats, Departure, Day 1
Joel tying the Cub to a dock on Grace Lake at The Pas.
The pre-adventure jitters kept me from sleeping soundly last night. I have had them before so I recognized them and understood the causes, excitement, and apprehension, fear of the unknown, homesickness before I leave and what did I forget to pack.
Early in the morning and now at 2,500 feet north of New Richmond headed for Baudette MN. 266 miles away most of the jitters are gone. This is not an airplane that you can get up and walk around in to stretch your legs as I sit directly behind Joel with just enough room for my elbows to stick out about six inches on either side. There are dual controls within my reach, a throttle on the left side, a receptacle on the floor between my feet that I can put the spare stick into so I can use the flight controls and dual brakes that are totally useless when flying on floats. One of the important functions of my position besides navigation is that I can reach around behind me and have access to snacks, maps, water and p-bottles.
As you can imagine fuel management is very critical when flying a single engine aircraft over remote wilderness with little or no hope of a safe landing spot so this is how we handled it:
Use the left fuel tank for take off, once airborne switch to the right fuel tank for fifteen minutes. Switch back to the left tank and fly on that one until the engine starts to quit then switch back to the right tank and fly on that one until you reach your destination or run it dry and look for a spot in the woods to crash land. The first time using this system the pucker factor really increased when the engine started to quit or falter which is a milder word.
We landed near Baudette on the Rainy River after three hours and ten minutes of flying time; used 26.3 gallons of fuel, it took two hours and five minutes for the left fuel tank to run dry. Refueled and caught a ride with the airport manager to the FBO at the airport while sitting in the back of an old cop car.
On the flight from New Richmond to Baudette we flew VFR without a flight plan and for the rest of our trip we will continue flying VFR but file a flight plan for our next destination. VFR stands for visual flight rules which really simply mean - always keep the ground or water in sight and stay out of the clouds.
We had a GPS for navigation but our primary source for navigation came from maps and looking out the window.
We filed a flight plan for Rainy River Manitoba, taxied down the river one mile, underneath a bridge and tied up to a dock, called Canadian customs from a phone fastened to a post near the dock and told them we arrived. They asked the usual custom questions over the phone, and then said we were good to go, they couldn’t even see the airplane.
Pine Dock Manitoba, a small float plane operation on Lake Winnipeg 222 miles away, is our next destination. Lake Winnipeg is 258 miles long and the 11th largest freshwater lake on earth so we were looking at and flying over a lot of water.
It was starting to be a little bit boring drumming along over miles and miles of water when I noticed some movement through a small hole in the floor boards between my feet. I watched as a lock washer, some nuts, a coin, a round piece of metal about two to three inches in diameter and a few rocks vibrated by on the inside of the fabric that covers the fuselage. We both have flown several hundred hours in 60 year old airplanes so a few extra parts and junk rattling around in the belly of the airplane was no big surprise.
Landed at Pine Dock after a 2 hour and 15 minute flight, refueled and added a quart of oil. It looks like we will have to add a quart of oil for every three hours of flight time. We watched a small black bear wandering around the fuel tanks by the dock then took off for the Pas Manitoba 239 miles away.
At 1700 ft and 84 mph it’s a smooth ride over Lake Winnipeg, Joel and I never seem to fly very high above the ground or water, the view is much better down here...
We were disoriented for a few minutes when I handed Joel the next map on our route when we were not ready for it yet. I was about an hour to early in my navigating; we stayed on course and soon figured it out.
We landed on Grace Lake next to The Pas, 2 hours 49 minutes enroute.
Six pm now, time to call it quits for the day, we flew 754 miles.
The Pas is called the Gateway to the North, is the home of the Opaskwayak Cree Nation, and sits on the banks of the Saskatacwan river. We hitched a ride into town and are staying in a lodge on the Cree Indian Reservation. That evening we stretched out our legs by walking down to the river; it felt good after sitting all day. We watched a train cross a bridge over the river, probably on its way to Churchill where Joel and I had chased Polar bears on another trip.
End of day 1.
Geezer Bob
Alaska on Floats, How it Began
Throttled back the Super Cub on floats silently glided low over the tree line and just after dawn touched down gently on the south end of Bone Lake. Taxing across the lake the pilot shut down the idling engine and slowly drifted onto the sand beach in front my cabin. I handed the pilot a couple of small bags that he put behind the back seat, we turned the airplane around climbed in and taxied away from shore.
Kevin a friend of mine walked down to the end of the neighbors dock cupped his hands and shouted “where are you going”, I yelled back out the open sea plane door “Fairbanks”. “Yeah right, I’ll talk to you later,” he responded. It was obvious he didn’t believe me as I watched him shake his head and walk back off the dock. Five days later and after nearly three thousand miles had slipped under our wings we landed in Fairbanks.
This adventure began three weeks previous to our departure from Bone Lake and started with a single inquiry. I’m a private pilot and my wife Lorraine and I own a 1950 Cessna 170 that I was conducting an annual inspection on with the assistance of a licensed mechanic. As I was lying on my back on the floor inside the cockpit, John, a mechanic working in another hangar stuck his head in the door and said, “I have a guy over here that’s looking for a pilot to fly his Super Cub to Fairbanks, do you know anybody?”
Climbing out of my airplane as fast as I could I told John “I have just the guy, I’ll make a call.”
I called my friend, Joel, relayed to him the story and said, “what do you think?” “I’m in,” he said, “but only if you come along”.
Joel Strate is a private pilot with several hundred hours on his float plane rating and previously Joel and I had flown his 1946 PA12 Super Cruiser to Alaska and back, a nine thousand mile odyssey. We were a good team on that trip working together on navigation, piloting and making crucial decisions when times got tough.
The owner of the Super Cub who was looking for a ferry pilot was John Zarling a retired professor of Mechanical Engineering from the University of Alaska in Fairbanks. John had purchased a 1975 Piper Super Cub PA18 in western Minnesota and had flown it to New Richmond Wisconsin to have a set of floats installed and rigged. John had a float plane rating but with only a few hours flying time on floats he was looking for someone that had more float flying and cross country flying experience. After meeting with John to discuss and agree on the logistics including compensation for ferrying the Super Cub to Fairbanks we started on the next steps of our adventure.
The Piper Super Cub is a legendary bush plane with superb flying characteristics and load hauling capabilities, has been manufactured for over fifty years and is very similar to Joel’s PA12. This Super Cub was equipped with a 150 horse power Lycoming engine, has seats for two people one sitting behind the other and should cruise at 115 mph. (it didn’t happen)
The Super Cub had to be checked out as completely as possible, we had to plan a route to Fairbanks and the necessary maps, emergency equipment and supplies had to be gathered.
Bill Clapp was one of the mechanics that was helping to install the floats. Bill is a licensed mechanic and pilot who has flown thousands of hours in small aircraft for missionary groups in South America and other parts of the world. Bill, more than others, understood the need for Joel and me to count on having the engine and mechanical parts of the Cub to be reliable. We were going to strap ourselves into the Super Cub and fly over some of the most remote parts of Canada and Alaska and to say it simply, we would like the engine to keep running and the wings to stay on.
Route planning was critical and on our first trip in Joel’s PA12 we could rely on hard surface land runways or even roads if we needed them. This trip with the Super Cub on floats would require even more precise planning making sure that we could get fuel where we planned to land on the water and that our planned stops were within our flight range.
Equipment that we carried with us was also critical even though we planned to stay in towns where we could we had to bring along camping and survival equipment just in case. Sleeping bags, tent, food, MSR cook stove, water, first aid kit, signal flares, ax, saw, fire starter, etc. plus a change of clothes, boots and rain gear. We stored four empty five gallon gas jugs in the floats that we could fill up to increase our flight range if needed and as it turned out we needed them.
With all the preparation, preplanning, packing and flight testing it finally comes time to “Kick the tires and light the fire” climb in and go. Tomorrow, weather permitting, we leave - July 12.
Continued next month.
Geezer Bob. Aka…No Stop No flop Mud Hole Jackson
Anybody who has introduced a youngster to the outdoors for any extended stay has to answer that question. I know that there are hundreds and thousands of stories on how this important question was answered by many people so I will only write from my experiences with my kids and grandkids. I also know there are several books written on this subject and I don’t intend to write another one but I will bet there are some very interesting stories out there about this activity.
Our boys found out early that they didn’t need to waste time running into the house and use the bathroom to go “number one” but going “number two” was reserved for the bathroom. On several occasions we observed them standing behind a tree and peeking around to see if we could see them from the house. Of course we knew what they were doing and so did everybody driving by on the road behind them. Our oldest son was only nine months old when we took him on his first canoe trip so packing in plenty of pampers worked for us. After two more kids, adding on a few more years and before more wilderness trips we had to address that inevitable question: “How do I go in the woods?”
I have had that same brief conversation with a few of the grandkids so I’ll just share some of those experiences. To begin with I found out that they were very reluctant to even talk about the possibility that they would even have to “go” in the woods. I heard answers like “I’ll hold it, I won’t have to go, we won’t be out there that long” or the ultimate answer “I ain’t going with you.” I usually won them over with “but the fishing is really going to be good” then a short conversation on what to do would follow.
If you have to “go” find a small tree to hang on to, make sure it isn’t a dead tree (you don’t want it to break) or find a log to sit on and bury everything and always bring some toilet paper with you. Now I’m talking wilderness area here and not your neighbor’s yard.
Grandson Noah after several trips into the outdoors finally had to address this crucial activity without being able to get to a modern bathroom, outhouse or manufactured satellite. My son, Dan, coached Noah by throwing a roll of toilet paper in a plastic bag to him as he was running into the woods. Dan is a man of few words and managed to sum it all up by shouting out to Noah, now somewhere in the woods, “Hey, Noah, bury it like a cat.”
Now there are bound to be some mishaps that have occurred and I bet that there are lots of funny stories out there that are not recorded in a book somewhere. I just happen to have a couple and I know that the safest stories are the ones that you tell about yourself, but I’m not going to do that!
I’ll take my chances and pick on somebody bigger than me, good old son (one more cast) Dave. After a long day in the woods turkey hunting Dave arrived back to the cabin and proceeded to remove most of his camouflaged clothes. Underneath he had a long sleeved camo t-shirt on and it took me awhile to figure out why it didn’t look quite right, “Hey Dave,” I called out, “What happened to your t-shirt - there‘s one sleeve missing?” “I forgot to bring some toilet paper along.”
On another occasion Dave and Joe one of his buddies were hunkered down next to a little pond hunting ducks when Mother Nature called out to Dave. “I’ll be right back,” Dave said to Joe as he headed for the woods behind the pond. After sledging through the swamp in his chest waders Dave returned and settled in next to Joe and continued scanning the skies for ducks. “How far back into the woods did you go?” Joe asked. “Quite a ways,” Dave responded. After a short time had passed Joe turned to Dave and said “Man, you stink!” Dave after doing a quick evaluation of where the odor might be coming from shouted, “It’s in my waders!”
I refuse to explain the events of the rest of their hunt but afterwards that little pond had a new name!
If you need to know how to do “it” correctly just goggle, “How to go in the woods” and you will find out everything you need to know about this subject.
I’ll bet that there are enough funny stories to fill a book about mishaps that have occurred while engaged in this outdoor activity.
Josh showing Noah how it’s done. Are those minnows on his shirt?
“Minnow money.” You may have heard that term before; it’s the small change that we put away so we can buy some bait and do a little fishing.
Now my grandsons have given that term a new meaning for me and this time it wasn’t even my idea. Two weeks ago, and about half way down the lake enroute to our fish shack I heard: “I’ll give you 10 bucks if you bite a minnow in half,” Noah said to Josh, his 11-year- old brother.
“Yeah right,” Josh responded.
“No, really I will,” Noah shot back. Josh being Josh, who would not turn down easy money, agreed he would bite a minnow in half, so Noah started to back peddle when he could see that he might lose $10.
Noah tried to set some rules with the hope that Josh would back out of his first venture into the world of sushi. “It has to be a live minnow; you have to bite it in half not just chew off a little piece off of the tail.”
“I’ll stand outside the fish shack to do it,” Josh said.
“Nope, you have to be inside the shack.”
I have no idea why this particular rule was important but then I thought that the odds of Josh actually biting a live minnow in half was remote at best, considering that he is a very picky eater and doesn’t even like bread crust and get this, he hates fish.
We settled into the shack opened up the minnow bucket and Josh selected a lively looking crappie minnow that all agreed was large enough to count, and after a few false attempts to build up enough courage, he chomped down and phooey he spit out half of the unfortunate minnow. We all looked at the floor to make sure that it indeed was half of the minnow and even Noah agreed Josh followed all his rules. We used an empty waxie container to store the two pieces of the minnow so he could show it to his dad when we got back to the house. Dan didn’t seem to be too surprised with the minnow thing but l have heard him say in the past, “there’s always something,” especially with five boys. I asked Josh if he wanted to bring the severed minnow home to show his mom but he said it had already started to stink so forget it.
I called Dan at home the next day to see if Noah actually gave Josh $10 for biting the minnow in half and he said that Noah’s mom had to intervene. She made him pay Josh the $10 that he was so reluctant to give up and that he had to honor his word. And then there was a talk about making stupid bets. When I was a kid, 10 cents would have been a big bet for me.
Fast forward to last weekend, and now Dan and grandsons Noah, Jake and Joey are in the fish shack with me. After a few crappies and perch were tossed back down the hole, 6-year-old Joey said to me, “If you give me 10 bucks I’ll bite a minnow in half.”
“Nope,” I responded.
Joey, not giving up said, “Give me five bucks and I’ll bite a minnow in half.”
“Nope," I said.
“How about a dollar?" Joey persisted.
“I’m not going to give you any money to bite a minnow in half.”
“Well then I’ll do it anyway,” and Joey proceeded to bite a minnow in half. A few minutes later, 8-year-old Jake, who cut his teeth on hot Buffalo wings, grabbed a minnow and bit it in half. Those poor minnows can’t even make it to water before something bad happens!
I looked at Noah and inquired, “Well, Noah, you started this minnow thing - it’s your turn.”
“Nope, not me, I’m not doing it.”
Dan had been alternately gazing out the window, staring at his bobber and looking at the minnow carnage on the floor of the shack. I asked him what he thought about all this and he just said something about a fish shack outside that was being lowered closer to the ice. Did I mention that Dan was very laid back?
Jack and Harvey headed out again.
“Hey, Bob, we are stuck in a ditch. Can you bring the truck over and pull us out?”
That cell phone call came a couple of weeks ago from my neighbor Jack and the other half of the “we” his brother-in-law Harvey. They had buried both of their snowmobiles in the snow in a ditch about two miles from Jack’s cabin and were hopelessly stuck. Before they left I had urged Jack to take his cell phone and my phone number with him just in case they needed help. This was not the first time that Jack and Harvey had called me for help with snowmobile fiascos.
After I pulled their sleds out of the deep snow in the ditch they decided to head back to the cabin and rethink their next move. I offered my truck for their use and they took their sleds to a well-groomed trail where help might be available if they got lost or got into trouble.
You see, few years ago I received another “Hey Bob” call on my cell phone from the Jack and Harvey duo. “What’s up Jack?” I responded.
“Harvey and I went through the ice.”
“Where are you?” I exclaimed.
“We are standing on a road. We stopped a car and are using their cell phone.”
“I’ll be right there,” I said.
This was a rare warm January day and standing on a road I knew - at least temporarily - they would be safe and that gave me a few minutes to throw some equipment into the back of my truck.
I tossed in ropes, chains, a come along, ax, ice chisel and headed out. They were only a couple of miles away.
Jack had said that the back end of the snowmobile was still sticking out of the water and I realized that there was only one place they could have broken through the ice. Both were doubled up on Jack’s snowmobile and pulling my otter sled behind containing their fishing equipment, they were going to follow the tracks (I thought) that we had laid down the previous few days to where our fish shack was located. To get there we had to skirt one edge of a pressure ridge by going close to shore, bypassing the thin ice so I felt that this had to be the area they went through. But how?
After picking up Jack and Harvey on the road, wet but not freezing, we decided to see if we could pull the snowmobile back to shore or up on the ice or at the least put a rope on it and tie it to shore so it wouldn’t slip into deep water. We fastened a rope to the rear handle behind the seat which was the only part of the snowmobile sticking out of the water. We struggled with the sled for some time and after Jack and Harvey waded back into the water we succeeded in maneuvering it back onto the ice.
With that chore done and the snowmobile safe on the ice, I took Jack and Harvey back to their cabin to dry off, say a few Hail Mary’s and warm up. While they were recuperating, I picked up another neighbor (Aw nuts I’m late Chuck) and using a four wheeler we proceeded to tow the water-logged snowmobile back to Jack’s garage.
Next to a warm fireplace, Chuck and I joined Jack and Harvey in a round of drinks celebrating their escape from the grasp of mother nature and listening to the needed debrief on just how in the heck did all this happen.
Jack had followed our tracks all the way to where the pressure ridge was and then decided to veer off to the right about 10 feet and maneuver across the pressure ridge which was about 18 inches high. He slowly eased up over the top and they and the snowmobile dropped in through the thin ice on the other side. Harvey was holding a rope tied to an otter sled with all the fishing equipment, he let go of it before they plunged in and it stayed on top of the ice. I asked them what their thoughts were when they broke through the ice and I think the word “panic” was used most often.
Harvey was clinging to the edge of the ice with his legs floating up underneath (I need to ask him if he saw a bright white light) that was about the time he looked over and saw Jack standing up in waste deep water with his feet on the bottom so Harvey lowered his legs and stood up. They waded out of the water walked to the road and called me.
Back in the cabin, and after one more round of drinks, the words “Now what?” were spoken.
“What do we do next? We have a snowmobile sitting in an unheated garage turning into a giant ice cube. Let’s call Bruce, he knows all about snowmobiles.”
“I have company but bring it right over here,” Bruce said. Bruce is a snowmobile fanatic and knows all about what we should do next. We watched as water shot out of the cylinders as Bruce turned the engine over and he did as much as he could to temporarily salvage the sled. After a couple of weeks being repaired by Bruce’s ace mechanic, Jack’s snowmobile was back up and running.
Last week, Jack, Harvey and Jack’s brother, Ron, snowmobiled past our place well after dark and well after they were supposed to return from an afternoon’s trip on the trails. I called Jack’s wife and asked her why they were out so late.
“They got lost,” she said.
“Who was leading?” I asked.
“Jack,” she said. “He missed a few trail signs.”
Thankfully, I didn’t get another “Hey Bob” call.
“Hey I have a great idea,” my son, Dan, said at the breakfast table as we were looking out at the frozen surface of the lake.
(The reason I started out this story with that line is to make it very clear from the beginning just who was the origin of this “great” idea and in no way did I contribute to any of the actions connected to this idea.Well, maybe a few.)
Several years ago Dan married into a family that used nicknames more than their real names so for the purpose of peace and harmony I will use those when referring to the in-laws. Boogie, Lady Di, Queenie, Weaser and Buzz are all aliases that I’m sure have some appropriate history connected with them. Dan married Weaser and it didn’t take him long to realize that Lady Di (the mother in-law) was a little jumpy and didn’t like surprises. I suppose it was the rubber snake in the kitchen drawer that was one of the tip offs to her cat-like reflexes when the unexpected happens.
Dan and Weaser have five boys between the ages of 11 and 5, the last two being twins.
Lady Di gets extremely nervous when Dan and the boys head out on outdoor adventures and of course he doesn’t miss the chance to tell her about the many dangers that await them. Rapids, wild animals, storms, and the Cumberland beast - she has heard it all from Dan and he continues to tweak the fear she has for her grandson’s safety.
Dan’s “great idea“ would only add to his precarious relationship with the mother in-law. Lady Di has a fear, among others, of venturing out on the ice in the winter and under any circumstance considers it extremely dangerous. Considering the thought that her grandsons might venture out on the ice for fishing or play was, I’m sure the basis for Dan’s “great idea.” Let’s show Lady Di with a picture how we test the ice North of 8, this was his “great idea.”
We decided that the youngest of the five boys should volunteer for the ice testing so Joey was nominated. I asked Dan how much younger Joey is than his twin. “About as long as it takes to pull one out, hand him off and grab the other one.” The other one, by the way is Elijah. They say a picture is worth a thousand words and Lady Di had a thousand words for Dan after she saw these pictures.
Joey thought this was a “great idea” when we were in the cabin talking about what kind of equipment we needed to test the ice and couldn’t wait to get started. But now standing in the snow next to the lake as Dan was tying the rope around his waist he said, “I’m starting to get a little nervous about this.”
“Don’t worry, there’s lots of ice out there and Grandma K (Lady Di) is really going to love this picture!” (I think Dan said that.)
After the pictures we put the ice testing equipment away and Dan headed out into the woods with the kids on the back of a four wheeler. I bet he didn’t tell Lady Di about who fell off.
I asked Dan how it went with the mother in-law when she saw the pictures. “I don’t think she appreciates my sophisticated sense of humor,” he said.
A few months ago I wrote about sending the old Black Pearl down the road when I sold it to Little Bob’s garage for $125. I thought I would share this journal entry that I came across recently about the Black Pearl. Oh, by the way, Little Bob fixed up that old truck and sold it for $800, go figure.
Ship’s log 1-28-07
Our son Dan (Hammer), and grandsons Josh and Noah came up today to do some fishing and having fun at the lake. Noah wanted to try out the new tip ups that he got from Grandpa Keller.
I fell in love with his Gander Mountain hat, not the typical hat that an 8-year-old boy wears, course he isn’t a typical 8-year-old. The hat is a camo colored billed hat with the best feature being the battery operated led lights sewn into the bill. We can use something like that for fishing muskies at night.
We set out nine tip ups in front of the cabin hoping to connect with a northern or musky. But five hours later, not a single flag. I kept Josh busy giving him rides on the neighbor’s snowmobile, the same snowmobile that Jack and his brother in-law, Harvey, went through the ice with a couple of weeks ago. They are alright, and that is another “North of 8” story.
We decided to head down to the fish shack and try to catch some perch and crappies.
The Black Pearl is the perfect ship for a voyage on the lake in the winter, a 1994 black Ford ½ ton 4x4. This old North of 8 truck has 200,000 leagues on her and her hull is battered and rusty but she starts most of the time and I can park her in the woods and nobody messes with it. The windshield is cracked and all the rear springs have broken or fallen out. Lorraine and I broke the springs hauling three tons of rocks out of our neighbor’s pasture for flower bed borders around the cabin.
We loaded up the Black Pearl with our fishing stuff and all four of us piled into the front seat and headed out on the lake. Josh noticed that the check engine light was on and wanted to know what that meant. I told him that it had been on for two years and it meant something was wrong with the engine. I don’t think he was comfortable with that answer so I tuned in the radio to Moose country 106.7 FM and started singing. There were 30 inches of ice in most places on the lake but it still is a strange feeling driving onto the lake in a vehicle.
After arriving safely at our destination, we settled into the shack and started to catch a few crappies and perch just as Orion the Hunter was rising in the south west sky. Josh ate more goldfish crackers then actual fish caught, but we had a good time. Noah caught a few fish for the camera (he says 12) and Josh was the first one to say that he was ready to leave and the rest of us finally agreed. We were there long enough for me to thaw out a frozen ale and drink it before setting sail in the Black Pearl for the return voyage.
Cruising at about 20 knots and with Orion’s belt about 10 degrees off the port bow I decided to introduce the youngest members of the crew to a maneuver known as “Whipping a Doughnut.” The screaming was quite loud and after the snow settled down in the headlights they dug their fingers out of the dash then shouted, “Let’s do that again!”
That called for three more “Whipping a Doughnut.”
Off we went and the old Black Pearl had a bone in her teeth (sailing term) when we flew over the pressure ridge at 40 knots. The same pressure ridge that Jack and Harvey went through earlier in the year, but that is another story, remember? For us there was just a loud clunk as we bounced across the ridge and landed on the other side, depending on your perspective.
We docked safely at the Boyd’s Nest and while the crew was chowing down on chicken nuggets and macaroni and cheese, I parked the old Black Pearl back in the woods and headed into the warm cabin on a cold winter night. I can’t even imagine what the Chipmunk that has been living in the frame of the Black Pearl was thinking at about mid “doughnut” time. Grandma Boyd was ok with our adventure but I bet I catch holy he…. from Grandma Keller for having two of her grandsons out on the ice.
The crew headed home and they looked kind of tired from another exciting day North of 8.
Captain Geezer Bob
Skipper of the Black Pearl
I think that just for an instant she looked at me right in the eyes to say “thanks.”
I would imagine that most of you have heard about how a "Doe on ice" behaves. Well, that's what I witnessed last year early in the winter season.
This adventure started out when I went out on the lake about a 100 feet to punch a hole through the ice with my spud and measured the thickness of the ice. There was almost four inches, but I was sure that it got thinner farther out. As I looked down to the south there was a doe trying to get up and she was doing the splits, spread eagles, all four legs going out, flips, rolls; actually I could be describing a gymnastic event for deer. She would just lay totally exhausted then start struggling all over again.
A mature Bald Eagle landed on the ice about 30 feet away from the deer and just stared at it. I think it was wondering how much time it would take before it would become its next meal. Realizing that the deer was in better shape than the eagle first thought, he finally gave up and flew away.
I watched the doe struggle for about 45 minutes and it could get no closer to shore despite its valiant efforts. I felt sorry for the deer so I decided to see if I could help her without putting myself in too much danger. I grabbed a rope from the garage, threw it in the back of our truck and drove down to the public landing so I could get closer to the deer and look at the situation.
While I was watching the doe's struggle a stranger drove up in a truck stopped and got out. “Do you think it’s wounded?” he said. “I don’t think so; I think she’s just tired and can’t get her footing on the ice,” I responded.
The stranger (I will conceal his identity by calling him Roger) said “muzzle loading season is open but I don’t want to shoot across the lake.” Lucky for the deer. After we watched her thrash around for a while, he said he didn't have the heart to shoot it. I told him about the rope in the truck and if he wanted to help I would lasso the doe and we could drag her off the lake to firm footing. Well, he agreed to help and I thought that as long as we don't get kicked, bit or break through the thin ice, we should be fine - all three of us that is.
We walked out gingerly, spacing out to spread the load so we wouldn't break through. After reaching the doe, Roger distracted her and I lassoed her around the neck on my first try. (Did I tell you about my rodeo days?) We started to drag her gently towards shore about 300 yards away. While we were dragging her I asked Roger, “Have you ever done any thing like this before?” He said no and was wondering how he was going to tell his hunting buddies that he saved a deer instead of shooting one.
Most of the time the doe laid quietly on her side and didn't struggle while we were trying to help her. Actually, she was calmer then I would be if somebody was dragging me by the neck across the ice.
Once we got to shore, all I had to do was get the rope off from around her neck. I reached down, staying away from her flailing hooves, unwrapped the rope and I think that just for an instant she looked at me right in the eyes to say “thanks.” At least that's what I want to believe. She got up and fell back down a few times but after about 10 minutes she wandered into the woods and I hope that she decided to give up the figure skating demonstrations.
Roger and I parted ways, strangers that had a very unusual experience.
But you know what? Anything can happen north of 8!!!
Later, I shared this story with one of our neighbors who I think secretly works for PETA. She wanted to know what happened after the deer wandered away so I told her “It crossed Dueholm Drive, was struck by a car and killed!” I had to hold the phone away from my ear to lessen the impact of the screaming that was going on at the other end. “No, no, listen I was just kidding,” I said.
But, what I have never told anybody up until now is that, while I was sitting on the couch that evening and about a half hour after sunset I heard a lone single shot.
You don’t suppose???????????????????
Dan and Noah a little blurry eyed before dawn.
I was reminded again how wonderful early mornings are in the outdoors and especially before sunrise tucked in a canoe by a swamp; I think Thoreau’s quote at the end of this story says it all.
My 11-year- old grandson, Noah, had signed up for the Wisconsin’s Mentored Hunting Program, and the opening for the youth waterfowl hunting was last weekend, Sept. 18 and 19. Noah’s dad, Dan, gave him a Remington model 870 20-gauge for his eleventh birthday last January and this would be his first chance to use it. The mentoring program was a perfect fit for him.
“What time do you think we should get up?” Dan asked knowing that most hunters go through the same calculations. We always work backward from when we can shoot, sound familiar? Shooting time starts at 6:22a.m., 15 minutes to sit quietly in the canoe, hide the canoe, set out decoys, paddle in, unload equipment, drive to the river, eat a piece of toast, get dressed, alarm goes off at 4:30a.m. That’s about right!
Setting out in the dark predawn skies, we paddled our canoe down the small river, just started to push into an area of wild rice and cattails when the quiet was interrupted by dozens of ducks flushing skyward in the dark.
“Ducks!” Noah exclaimed, and I thought quietly to myself, “This is going to be a good hunt.” Early morning, drinking coffee out of my thermos top cup, waiting for sunrise, sitting in the canoe with Dan and Noah. How great is this?
One of the rules of the mentoring program is - if the youth is 10- or 11-years-old, the mentor has to stay within an arm’s reach of the hunter. Since Noah is the only one that can legally hunt this weekend, and Dan being the mentor, he does the coaching, and I just sit in the bottom of the canoe blowing duck calls and drinking coffee.
“Mark…11 o’clock,” said Dan as two wood ducks zeroed in on us. Noah took his shot but they just kicked in the after burners and left.
After a few more close calls, practicing what we call duck conservation (misses), we had a discussion about how the term “Mark” came about. I suggested that maybe it came from submarine commanders shouting it out when they were calling out distances and bearings to fire control officers. After the looks I got back from Dan and Noah I decided to just keep blowing the duck call and drinking coffee.
Later in the day, after some of grandma’s pancakes, we went back to the same spot for the night shoot and waited two hours for the golden hour to arrive without Noah getting a shot during that time. The famous golden hour is the last hour of hunting before sunset, and if there are any ducks around they should be flying back in to the rice beds for the evening.
Before sunset, Noah fired a round at a coot that happened to be flying by and then a hen mallard landed about 20 yards from the canoe. The mallard flushed, Noah missed the first shot but thought he saw feathers fly on the second shot. Paddling out after sunset we watched scores of ducks coming back into the rice beds. I guess they can tell time!
Noah’s Grandpa Keller called him on the phone that evening and after Noah told him all about his first day hunting, Grandpa K. told him, “You can’t eat feathers!”
The next morning in the swamp, we were greeted by a beautiful sunrise glowing red out of the east and another explosion of ducks as we worked our way back in to the reeds. Owls were calling as we listened to the cracking of brush coming from the edge of the swamp. “Deer,”Dan said, “Maybe a bear.” I thought it could be the Cumberland Beast but I didn’t get any support for that theory. The worst part of this morning was that I left my thermos of coffee and the wings for the robo duck in the truck. We can get along without the robo duck but not having my coffee along was a major issue. I was told a couple of times to “shut up” about the coffee.
Later in the morning when we poked the bow of our canoe into a small back water bay of another ducky looking swamp, two drake wood ducks jumped into the air. Noah couldn’t shoot because the stock of the gun got caught up in the life jacket, something we will correct later.
I asked Noah what he thought about duck hunting now that he gets to shoot a gun. “It’s a lot harder than it looks,” he replied. I’m sure he was disappointed that he didn’t get a duck, but someday when he gets older, Thoreau’s words will have more meaning - they have a lot of meaning for me.
“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately,
To front only the essential facts of life,
And see if I could not learn what it had to teach,
And not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.”
Henry David Thoreau
“Follow me,” I told Dave (One more cast). “I have a tow rope just in case we don’t make it,” he responded. It had taken me a year to finally realize that I had to let go of the Black Pearl and move on with my vehicle life. The Black Pearl is a 1994 Ford F150 4x4 pickup truck that I bought used, 13 years ago and now with 200,000 miles on her hull the end is near and I need to let go.
The truck was named after Captain Jack Sparrow’s ship in the movie Pirates of the Caribbean Dead Man’s Chest. The grandkids who loved those movies thought it was a “cool” name for our old black pickup truck and we shared many adventures together in the “Old Pearl.”
As I reflect on a few of the mechanical problems and repairs over the years, some of them mark significant times.
After Lorraine and I moved “North of 8” we returned to our neighbor’s farm to gather rocks for the flower bed edging, and somewhere up in their pasture lay all the leaf springs that fell out of the back end of the Pearl because of the heavy load. It was a rough ride home but we made it.
The crack across the windshield started with just a small hole from a rock thrown by a passing truck on a gravel road in a remote part of Canada. By the time the border came into view we had watched the small hole turn into a crack all the way across the windshield. But the canoe trip and the great fishing, I can still recall.
The rear fuel tank leaks, the tail gate I have been holding up with a cargo strap and I can still recall when the rearview mirror fell off. It happened while I was towing our fish shack off the lake and miscalculated the height of the bank buried under the snow. I had it in 4-wheel drive and was caring a little extra speed because of the depth of the snow when I hit the hidden bank. I immediately went airborne and for a brief second the scene in the cab looked like the inside of the space shuttle. Some sort of antigravity laws were applied at that moment as fish poles, hats, gloves, flash lights, waxies, tackle boxes and I were suspended in space. A second later, the fish shack that I was towing hit the same bank and brought us to a dead stop. Everything that had been floating in space was now piled up on top of the dash board. Dave and Buzz Saw were standing outside holding their sides from laughing so hard while I was inside trying to figure out what just happened.
The oil pan had rusted through and, in order to replace it the engine, had to be pulled. Enough is enough, so it sat next to the driveway for a year while I made up my mind to part with it.
Lots of memoires, but with the final needed repair I decided not fix it up. Instead, I sold it to Little Bob’s North of 8 garage for whatever he would give me. Little Bob is a good mechanic and he said, “Maybe I can put my plow on the front and move some snow with it.”
After Dave and I pulled the Pearl out of its year long parking place, I opened the hood and, using a leaf blower, cleared out the acorns, pine corns, leaves and anything else that mice and chipmunks thought might be worth storing in the engine compartment.
We dumped in two gallons of old boat motor gas, jumped it from the battery on the Emerald (the new truck) and the old Pearl started right up. Dave unhooked the jumper cables slammed the hood down on the Pearl and as I started to back up I hit the brakes and blew out the right front brake line. “Ok, maybe this isn’t going to be as easy as I thought.” I added some more brake fluid and discovered that when I hit the bottom with the brake peddle I had some braking. “Let’s go!” We jump started the Pearl again and off we went with Dave following me in his vehicle with a tow rope just in case we needed it.
A block down Dueholm Drive two chipmunks fell out of the bottom of the truck and according to Dave, “Just rolled on the asphalt, got up and ran into the woods!” A few miles later another chipmunk went flying out from under the truck and rolled, but this one got up a little slower. I was a little nervous about what might be crawling around with me in the cab of the Pearl but they all kept their heads down.
I handed Little Bob the title to the Black Pearl and he handed me $125. I bet that somewhere in the truck there are a few chipmunks for him.
I have another story about the Pearl that I’ll save until winter. This summer, Lorraine, daughter Tracy and I toured the real Black Pearl (HMS Bounty) at the Tall Ships festival in Duluth.
Geezer Bob, Aka Captain of the Black Pearl.
Where has all the time gone? That was just one of my thoughts as our canoe floated gently down stream on the current of the Red Cedar River.
In the bow of my old 17 foot Grumman canoe was my grandson Josh and accompanying us in a 15 foot Old Town canoe was my son Dan and 2 more grandsons Noah and Jakob. Dan and I had planned this 2 day canoe trip down the Red Cedar River to be a learning experience for the boys but it also turned out to be a very reflective journey for me.
Our route was to put in at the bridge where County Road I crosses the Red Cedar river a few miles west of Chetek, camp overnight just north of Sand Creek at Myron Park and take out the next day at the bridge on Highway 64, about 14 miles from start to finish. Twenty years have passed since I had taken Dan and my other son Dave down the same stretch of the Red Cedar River on a 2 day camping trip and my memory was challenged to recall the events of the trip and the bends and riffles in the river were long forgotten.
As the canoes slipped quietly along the wooded banks one of my memories returned when I heard Josh holler “I’m hungry”. “What! We just got started,” I said. “Where is the food pack, I need something to eat.” Now my memory was coming back and I recalled that over 2 days my sons ate everything in the canoe that could be called food. I guess the grandsons Noah, 12, Josh, 10 and Jakob, 8, are not that much different than their father at the same age. Our lunch break would be at the IA county road bridge. “How far is that?” Josh wanted to know. “About four miles” I said. Josh is a competitive swimmer, very strong for his age and when he heard it would be four miles to go before we could get more food out of the food pack, he really dug his paddle into the water.
So much for leisurely floating along fishing and enjoying the wildlife. I did solve this problem for me later in the trip. Lunch time and out came the bread, peanut butter, luncheon meat, cookies and juice packs. I told Josh that when he is old enough to take his drivers license test one of the questions they will ask him is “do you eat your crust?” “Aw shut up!” he said. After we packed everything up from our lunch break Dan said “I don’t think there is anything left for lunch tomorrow.”
About 6:00 pm our overnight destination Myron Park came into view and we unpacked and set up camp. It had rained off and on all day and we had a slight drizzle as the tents were pitched. It was a little uncomfortable but the rain kept the deer flies and mosquitoes away.
Hot dogs roasted over the fire was the main course and Jakob set the camp record for dropping them in the fire. I do remember seeing one flying through the air on its way to the burning embers.
The boys were happy we had a “satellite” outhouse nearby and they didn’t have to use the woods for that chore. The company name on the outside was Sweetwater, very appropriate.
Noah and I slept in one tent, talked about the poor fishing on this stretch of the river and listened to all the noise coming from the tent that housed Dan, Josh and Jakob. Dan had to tell them a few ghost stories before they settled in.
We were back on the river again the next morning after a breakfast of pancakes most of which were cooked by Josh. I did mange to burn Jake’s hand (not very serious) in trying to transfer a pancake to his paper plate and another hunk of food bit the dust.
The fishing was better on this stretch as we passed the old town of Sand Creek. Noah caught a 30 inch northern and the rest of us caught a few smallmouth bass and one walleye. I taught Josh how to steer the canoe from the bow and I could just relax and fish while looking at the back of his life jacket that had Full Throttle printed on it. This title was meant for Josh!
We pulled out at the highway 64 bridge and everybody started looking for something to eat but all we had left were a couple of cookies that Dan had managed to hide.
Great trip down memory lane or should I say Memory River.
There it was 50 ft away from me, Aquila chrysaetos, otherwise known as a Golden Eagle. What a magnificent bird.
I had told others that I had seen a Golden Eagle near Bone Lake on occasions but this time I had witnesses and a close up view of the bird. Being so close and with a pair of binoculars to identify colors, wing and tail patterns and feathered legs there was no doubt what we were looking at. The witnesses were my son Dave (One More Cast) and our dog Maggie.
Last summer we were traveling north on the Blake lake road and noticed a large bird standing in the middle of the road. I eased the 1993 Pontiac Sunbird (classic) up as close as I could trying to avoid scaring it off the road kill that it was claiming as its prize. I guess calling it a prize is a stretch because it was the remains of a rather large skunk. If Eagles can smell they must not care about what they are eating.
Maggie was upset with what was happening and was standing in my lap with her feet on the steering wheel and making quite a ruckus. She is 8 lbs of Toy Rat Terrier with an attitude and wanted either a piece of the Eagle or the skunk. She would have come out on the losing end if she chose the Eagle.
Dave and I kept exchanging the binoculars, amazed that the Eagle would stay right there picking away at its savory meal. After about 5 minutes of staring at the Eagle in the middle of the road and wondering how we were going to get around it without scaring it off, it grabbed the skunk and hopped to the edge of the road. This looked like the opportunity that we were looking for so I eased the car slowly forward and proceeded to try and pass carefully, yet still watching the Eagle through the open windows.
Several unexpected events happened in the next few seconds and I can still see them unfolding like a slow motion movie.
When we were right next to the Eagle it jumped into the air with several pounds of rotting dead skunk in its talons. In the same split second we realized that we had been parked up wind and could not previously appreciate the odor that the bird seemed to be enjoying. It only took a second or so for the Eagle to start flapping its wings and with the additional weight of the skunk it was struggling hard to stay airborne.
The bird book says the average wing span of a Golden Eagle is 84 inches and this one looked above average so let’s say the wing span was 86 inches, that is 2 inches over 7 feet. I’m giving you these dimensions so that you might be able to picture what we were seeing through the open window right along side the car and just how big this bird was.
Dave screamed “speed up.” We started to gain momentum but so did the Eagle, and it managed to stay right along side of us with the skunk and with those big wings flapping.
The closest intersection was the Round Lake road about a block ahead of us and both the Eagle and I were flying down the road trying to get some degree of separation.
Maggie was going ballistic, Dave and I were both gagging while trying to roll up the windows, I finally made the intersection turned left and the Eagle continued straight ahead struggling to get above the tree line.
We headed for home with our eyes running, noses running and the windows back down trying to blow the skunk smell out of the car. I had to leave the car out of the garage for 3 days to air it out.
Is there a lesson here?
“You are not going to believe what happen to me,” Dave exclaimed. “You should have been along”.
Dave and I spend a lot of time on the water together fishing and hunting and sooner or later some thing unusual seems to happen. Close encounters with eagles, sightings of Otters, fish caught and lost; you name it, stuff happens. But this... Very rare indeed.
Our son, Dave (one more cast), was musky fishing late one Friday afternoon. He was using the electric trolling motor, moving slowly along the south west corner of Bald Eagle island about 20 feet from shore when weirdness happened. Dave was leaning against the front pedestal seat reeling in his line when “I heard a splash.” He turned around in time to see a merganser emerge from under the water, launch it self through the air and collide with the back pedestal seat in the boat. It bounced off of the seat, landed in the bottom of the boat and laid there shaking its head and I would imagine wondering just where in the heck it was.
Dave said it was obvious that it really “rang its bell”. Seconds later another “splash” and a loon emerges from under the water about 15 feet from the boat right where the merganser came up. “It looked mad and mean, its neck was arched, wings were spread out, red eyes glaring around its long sharp bill and it was staring right at me and the boat.”
He said it was very obvious that the loon wanted a piece of the merganser and quickly deciding it was better that the merganser take a beating then him, he reached down scooped up the dazed merganser and with a mighty heave tossed it towards the shore on the opposite side of the boat from the loon. The loon seeing its chance charged around the back of the boat and chased the merganser into the reeds on the shore. Dave said that after the loon lost track of the merganser “it just calmed down and swam off.”
After a thorough debriefing of the incident and investigating the scene of all the action the next day, we have come up with some thoughts on the merganser – loon rumble.
One of the combatants was a drake Red Breasted Merganser and like the loon consumes fish for its diet. The loon being very territorial did not like the merganser eating at its table and was taking issue with it when Dave got in the way or saved the merganser depending on which critter you talk to. It appears the merganser can’t fly because it had plenty of opportunity to do so. According to two of our neighbors, (Aw Nuts I’m Late) Chuck and (Numbers) Glen, they think the merganser is molting and that’s why it couldn’t fly.
I went fishing the next morning and the merganser was still there, I think it remembered the boat because it didn’t get very close.
If you are out and about look for the merganser near the south end of the island, you might even see “the” loon still patrolling also.
“That’s a musky” I said. “Yeah!” Noah yelled so loud that I’m sure they heard him on the other end of the lake. Noah is my eleven year old grandson and this musky action was last year when he was ten and had been trying to catch his first musky for three years.
Noah has been an avid fisherman since he could hold a fishing pole and has been adding different species of fish to his fish “bucket list” since then -- Cutthroat trout in Yellowstone, Small mouth bass in Wisconsin and many species in between but even though he had been working hard at it his first musky had eluded him. Strikes, hits, follows, lost fish but no picture yet, a story that is very familiar with most musky fishermen.
Noah likes to stand in the front of the boat next to me when we are casting, at first I thought is was just so we could talk about grandpa and grandson stuff but I finally realized that he was up there because he wanted to hit the best water first with his cast. He doesn’t miss anything when it comes to fishing and there isn’t a “what if” question he hasn’t asked me. Noah talks fishing non stop from when we are walking to the boat until we get back from our outing and if I don’t respond I get a “hello”, sometimes I pretend to be irritated but I love every minute of it.
We have a ritual that we do when we decide to move to another spot to fish we make “one more cast” and we do it together. This time our bucktails landed about three feet apart, moved two feet on the retrieve and after making untold casts over the years, listening to me about “keeping your bait” in the water, it finally paid off for Noah . “Fish on!” he screamed. I put my pole down, got the landing net ready and watched the fight this musky was putting up. Even though this was Noah’s first musky on the line, with all his fishing experience he didn’t need much coaching from his grandpa.
After the 39 inch musky slide into the landing net we both were so excited I don’t remember much of what we were talking about but I do remember very clearly one sentence Noah said “I think I’ll remember this for a long time maybe for the rest of my life”.
In typical musky fishing experiences, Noah caught a 35 inch musky two days later and lost a forty that went airborne and shook the hooks loose.
Three years to catch the first one, two days to catch the second isn’t that the way musky fishing goes?
I was recently asked by a friend of mine where I came up with the handle Geezer Bob and what’s with the North of 8 stories. Well if one person is wondering about that others probably would like to know also.
Where I originally gave myself the Geezer Bob handle is from the definition of Airport Geezers that I came up with and continue to work on. Some of my experiences come from being a private pilot and owning various aircraft over the past 30 years or so. More of my flying hours came from being a member of the flight crew on a P2V Neptune
Anti-submarine patrol bomber for the USNR back in the sixties and seventies. But you know what they say about the sixties, if you can remember what happened then you probably weren’t there.
Any way the Airport Geezers are older gentlemen that hang around small airports, watch small aircraft take off and land and dream about the good old days. They usually are sitting on a bench in the shade near the FBO office (Fixed base operator). Most of them prefer airports with grass runways and tail draggers (this is not an insult to geezeretts but refers to the landing gear configuration). They are a source of information for transient pilots or anybody else for that matter, on places to eat, how to get fuel for their aircraft, the weather and more information then the pilot really wanted to know.
They see themselves as a source of wisdom on anything flying and are always willing to share their flying experiences including all the aircraft that they have flown. Usually they are accompanied by the airport dog who also sits and watches airplanes with them and knows how to get handouts from the pilots without getting caught in the propeller.
I know of one airport geezer that lived in a shack north of 8 and claimed to have flown with Jimmy Doolittle on the raid over Tokyo. Recently I found out that he also claimed to be a Russian interpreter for the Army during the second World War in Europe.
Another pilot friend of mine and I stopped in to visit him one day and after walking up to the house we saw his feet sticking out of the front door into the porch. We thought he was dead but after looking around the edge of the door we could see that he was just sleeping. When we woke him up and asked if he was o.k., he said he just taking a nap and didn't want to take his muddy boots off! He, God rest his soul, is a whole other story and just now I realize his initials were B.S. No, I’m not kidding!!
Regarding the North of 8 title to my stories I realize that this has more significance for Wisconsin readers then it does for most Minnesota folks. In Wisconsin Highway 8 starts in St. Croix Falls in the west and ends on the eastern side of the state at the Menomine river 2 miles south of a small town in Michigan called Norway. It roughly marks the southern border of the upper 1/3 of the state.
For most people who live in this part of Wisconsin the term North 8 has a mystery to it and unusual happenings occur north of this line or somewhere in its vicinity. I guess that Highway 8 in Minnesota is just too close to the Twin Cities to have the same significance.
Anyway aren‘t you glad that my friend asked me about this.
Jon Walleye Platson and the horse shack after a paint job...
I’m not sure what you call a horse trailer that is converted into a fish shack but horse shack sounded better than fish trailer so that’s what we decided to call it.
A number of years ago my wife Lorraine and I sold our hobby farm located just north of Roberts Wisconsin and moved North of 8 for retirement and the good life. After thirty four years in one home, raising a family, and raising horses we had collected quite a large amount of “stuff”. This was our opportunity to downsize our collection of “stuff” and after filling up a 20-yard dumpster we had more to get rid of.
One of the larger items was a 1950 Morris horse trailer made in Chickasaw Oklahoma that wasn’t worth much but after asking around we found a friend that was interested in taking it off our hands. Now I know that our friend Jon didn’t have any horses so I asked him what he intended to do with it, his reply was “I’ll use it to haul my Harley”.
We hadn’t used that old horse trailer for about 15 years and its wheels had gradually settled into the dirt inside one of our sheds. This was early spring and with the wheels buried in the frozen dirt getting it out would be left to John and his friends at a later date. I tried chopping in the dirt with an old ax but then after plunging the ax into a tire everybody agreed that I should give it up for awhile.
We forgot about the old horse trailer, but a couple of years later Jon asked Lorraine and I to drive over to his grandfather’s place on Little Blake Lake and check out his creation. Well surprise! Jon (Walleye) Platson had converted the horse trailer into a fish shack that he was mighty proud of it.
“So what happened to the Harley thing?” I said. “I thought this was a better idea,” he responded.
Jon had taken out the manger and tack compartment, put three holes along one side, installed a fold down bunk, a bench, completely insulated it, and the two back doors were replaced with a single door.
It needed a paint job but it definitely had possibilities.
After a couple of weeks I called Jon to see how the old horse shack was working out and he said “Just fine but now I have to pound a few dents out”! Jon had a little mishap on the windy road that runs down to the public landing on the way to Big Round Lake.
He said that he wasn’t going very fast and everything was going ok but when he looked into his side view mirror the horse shack was starting to pass him up. “It came unhooked - safety chains and all!”
The horse shack continued on its journey down through the ditch, out into the woods, bounced off a couple of trees and came to rest. Jon said he only had to pound some dents out, rethink his attachment equipment and it was ready to go again. They built them strong in Chickasaw!!
Jon had been following his dad who was pulling his own version of a fish shack. His dad had an old hard sided camper trailer that they used as a deer shack parked out in the woods but when a bear tore the side out of it they converted it into a fish shack. I suppose you could call it a “bear shack”!
When you are over here in western Wisconsin during ice fishing season keep your eyes open for our old horse trailer and Jon (Walleye) Platson - just don’t ask him where the fish are biting.
Another great tale only North of 8 can claim!!!
Buzz Saw Wahman trying to push my fish shack.
This year while ice fishing on Bone Lake I met two classic north of 8 geezers.
It all started out with me trying to use the neighbor’s Rhino (a four wheeler on steroids) to move his fish shack to a new hot spot on Bone Lake. While I was hooking the Rhino up to the shack a van drove up, one of the guys inside came over and started to interview me about the fishing, why I was moving the shack and to where. I could tell right away that he was trying to get some fishing tips out of me so I gave him all the information that I wanted to share, “No fish, I’m moving down lake.” Well about then the other fella came over and they both started looking at the shack and saying things like, “kind of big, look at the size of those runners, think you can move it? We can help you move it” That was another hint that they were after the location of my new secret spot. I said “no thanks I’ll give the Rhino a shot at it”.
They returned to their vehicle and just stayed there watching me. After many attempts and only moving the shack a few inches I gave up. As I was unhooking the Rhino they came over and again offered to move it. “No thanks I’ll just get my truck”. That’s when I remembered that my truck was at Little Bob’s garage getting the transmission repaired after it got stuck in gear while trying to move the neighbor’s shack the day before.
I finally accepted their offer to tow the shack, knowing that in doing so I would give away the location of my new secret spot. After I guided them and the shack to the new location they decided to try some fishing about five feet away, (big surprise huh?).
While I was putting blocks under the shack and banking it up with snow I noticed an auger drilling a hole through the ice. Now on most occasions that would not be unusual except this time it was coming from and through the floor of their vehicle. As I walked over to take a closer look at their van the side door slid open and they showed me what was inside.
They told me their mobile fish shack was a 1994 four wheel drive Dodge Caravan. They had a dash mounted GPS that had a detailed depth chart of Bone Lake. There were two Vexilars one for each hole carved through the floor, one behind the driver’s seat and the other behind the front passenger’s seat. Their auger and bit was fastened to a battery operated drill and was stored on a rack just above the rear seat heater. They were sitting in the back seat and fishing through the holes in the floor. They told me to “Come on in, just kick the dogs out of the front seat, it’s warmer in here than out there.” I said “no thanks” and went back to working on the shack.
After I finished up I walked over to their mobile fish shack parked right next door, opened the sliding door and received another invite to “come on in and do some fishing”.
They looked at me kind of funny when I told them that I didn’t have any fishing equipment with me but I explained to them that “my wife and I are coming back later to do some fishing and cook some brats and beans on the stove.”
One of the geezers reached behind the back seat and grabbed what looked to be an empty quart bottle of brandy. He said “Sorry we can’t offer you a drink.” I told him that “It looks like you have done more drinking than fishing”. He said “Oh no, we have been working on this jug for two days.”
I would guess that these old boys were in their mid 70’s; they had a week’s growth or more of whiskers and were dressed accordingly. They looked comfortable sitting in the back seat with their empty jug and the remnants of several waxie containers spread on the carpeted floor of the van.
“Where you boys from,” I asked. “Cushing,” came the reply. “Is that north of 8?” “Yep.” I told them that “I don’t see much reason to go south of 8 except for weddings, funerals and fishing”. “That’s true” they said. I told them that I had to leave but if they wanted to catch a few fish just go up lake, look for the fish shack that said Bob Boyd on the door and fish just south of where I used to have it. Of course they didn’t know where I used to have it.
Good old geezers in their mobile fish shack.
I know what you are thinking, a 60 pound turkey, come on! Well it’s true and like all my North of 8 stories, the truth can sometimes be stranger than fiction.
The person who related this story to me is Jeff Traynor who along with his wife Jill own Jonzy’s Market and Lake Services Unlimited located just south of Bone Lake.
A few years ago one of Jeff’s young workers was raising a turkey for a 4H project and Jeff was helping the lad with resources to assist him in raising the turkey. Jeff and the boy had come to an agreement that when the project of raising the turkey was complete Jeff would end up with the bird.
After several months of care and feeding, the 4H project was completed and the boy presented the turkey to Jeff just as they had agreed upon. To Jeff’s amazement the turkey had reached an incredible weight of 60 lbs and the question of “now what” came to the forefront.
If an answer to the question of “now what” could be found it was at the early morning coffee gatherings at Jonzy’s. Most weekday mornings there was a small gathering of local north of 8 residents at Jonzy’s sipping java and swapping yarns. The group of regulars consisted of a couple of local dairy farmers “fresh” out of the barn, a couple of construction workers that were in no hurry to get to work and a few that were not sure themselves what they did. One of the group was a farmer and hound running bear and coyote hunter whose family, when they were not in the barn, were out in the woods hunting or chasing critters.
After a few mornings of discussion about what to do with the 60 pound turkey Jeff was invited over to the hound running farmer’s place to butcher the bird. One of the other farmers, whom I shall not name but Dueholm Dr. is named after him, offered a bit of wisdom. He said that “if you drive a nail up through the beak of the bird into its brain to kill it, the birds feathers will fall out and it will save a lot of the plucking.”
Early one morning late in the fall Jeff along with the turkey in tow drove over to the hound running farmer’s place and a date with destiny for the turkey. When Jeff drove up the driveway he noticed 4 deer hanging from a large cross pole near the barn. When you live north of 8 any large wild game that you have killed is usually hung up outside on a big wood cross pole or a tree so that it “cures properly” and I believe that it’s also to show it off to the neighbors or anybody that drives by.
After Jeff entered the barn the turkey was quickly dispatched using the “nail through the beak into the brain” method. I know you really want to know if the bird’s feathers fell out, well according to Jeff they didn’t exactly fall out but they were much easier to pluck out then on any previous bird. When Jeff was busy plucking and cleaning the turkey he heard an unusual sound coming from outside near the back of the barn. Jeff described it as “a chopping sound but not like wood chopping.” He put the turkey down, walked over to side of the barn, opened the door and looked out on a scene that I know you don’t see south of 8.
What Jeff saw was a man with an ax cutting up a dead, frozen stiff horse. It seems that one of the locals had a horse that died of natural causes and not wanting to waste any available resources gave the dead horse to the hound running farmer to feed his dogs.
The hound running farmer had several hounds that he kept in small individual wooden dog houses spaced around the farm. Up here they don’t spend a lot of money on expensive dog chow when something else will do.
According to Jeff as he was driving away from the farm with the butchered turkey the whole event seemed like a surreal experience except that he was part of it.
When Jeff cooked up the turkey he could only fit one breast at a time into a large deep fryer. What a bird!
Final Chapter of the Bear Sandwich Saga (I thought)
At long last we believe that the intruder or intruders that have been eating Buzz Saw’s thermal nuclear sandwiches have been revealed.
Our mysterious visitors have consumed almost a full loaf of bread, some hamburger buns, a jar of jalapeno peppers (diced), half a jar of peanut butter, half a jar of jelly, some olives, cashews, one olive and finally some cyanne pepper. Old Buzz Saw finally changed his capture tactics by putting the bait inside a live trap and abandoning the placing of the bear sandwiches on a stump and on top of a birdfeeder. We didn’t believe that the DNR would let us use one of their large trailer bear live traps so the switch was made to a smaller version of a live trap.
“You have got to come over here, I got him!” Buzz Saw exclaimed one morning and “bring the kids.”
Off we went to where Buzz Saw was proudly waiting for us, anxious to show what he had captured.
“Well that’s not a bear,” someone remarked but what we had was a very large raccoon.
Our trusty garage sale game camera had not yet produced a clear picture of what we might expect to catch in the trap. Another week went by and we had pictures of 2 raccoons and a few deer walking by the trap and the stump.
All told, Buzz Saw’s live trap captured 8 raccoons, one skunk and two of the neighbors cats. The raccoons were relocated the cats were sent home but the skunk was terminated with extreme prejudice.
Our game camera took pictures of the above critters and the neighbors kids but no bears.
Bear Sandwich Revenge
I really thought that the bear sandwich saga was finally over when the Raccoons, skunk and the neighbor’s cat were all relocated, terminated or set free but I was wrong.
Last week the back end of Buzz Saw’s live trap was punched in and the jelly sandwiches were stolen by an unknown predator.
This picture should explain what happened when Buzz Saw went to remove the trap and retire from feeding any more sandwiches to the local wildlife.
Unfortunately for Buzz Saw he could not out run the bear but he did come to a common understanding with the bruin that if he continued to supply him with hajilipeno and peanut butter sandwiches and any other food stuff that he wishes this type of chase would not occur again. Buzz Saw who never goes into the wild without his multi-tool and a bear sandwich made a peace offering and the bear retreated for now.
Last Sunday Buzz Saw checked the game camera and the display on the outside of the camera said that 89 pictures had been taken which is quite a task for a roll of 24 exposure Kodak film.
“The thing was full of ants,” Buzz Saw reported over the Sunday morning cinnamon rolls. He had sprayed all the ants in the box but had not opened up the camera inside yet.
Lorraine, One More Cast, Buzz Saw and I debated our next move as we studied the camera sitting on the kitchen table. One suggestion was to take it into Wal-Mart, they can stick the whole camera into some sort of dark sleeve like thing and rewind it. This idea was offered by one of our neighbors who didn’t realize the amount of endless ingenuity that was being used on this whole bear sandwich adventure.
The last time Buzz Saw opened up the camera he exposed all the unwound film and we ended up with no pictures.
“I’ll go down in my basement and open it up, it’s dark down there.” “What basement. “ I asked? ”The crawl space under my cabin,” he replied.
Well right away I had visions of Buzz Saw trying to explain to the neighbors what he might be doing under his cabin so I volunteered another solution that I thought made more sense. “I’ll go into our bedroom closet, close the door, open the camera and see if I can feel if the film has been rewound.” I gently opened up the camera in the completely dark closet and by feel I could tell that this time the film had successfully rewound. I did notice a strange soft, squishy kind of feeling in the camera, so I gently slid the closet door open to take a look. Well do you have any idea how many larva (eggs) ants can put into a 35 mm camera in one week. I didn’t waste any time getting the camera out side on the deck.
It looked like they didn’t get into the roll of rewound film, so we may at last have a picture of the bear sandwich marauder I exclaimed
Buzz Saw took the roll of film with him when he left and volunteered to get it developed. He shared the developed pictures with me while waiting for the priest to get started at a memorial service for an old neighbor who had died recently. He would have appreciated our efforts.
Most of the pictures were taken by the ants over a few hours of invading the game camera or some other unexplained phenomena, but the next picture we are having analyzed by the FBI behavioral unit to see if this could possibly be our bear sandwich creature or just some simply an animal passing by.
Our new strategy is to relocate the game camera more out in the open away from the ants and the trees.
Stay tuned.
Geezer Bob
Because of the increase in bear sightings around Bone Lake we have tried to come up with a solution for keeping them away and now we think we have it.
A couple of weeks ago a neighbor (Jolene O.) told me of a special sandwich that was designed to keep bears away. I passed on the recipe to Glen (Buzz Saw) Wahman and he proceeded to concoct the special "bear sandwich" - two slices of bread stuffed with peanut butter and jalapeno peppers. I guess the whole theory is that once the bears eat the sandwich they never return to the area. Last Saturday Buzz Saw made up a “bear sandwich” and set it out on a stump near his driveway in the same area that Dave (one more cast) Boyd had spotted 2 bears last week.
“It’s gone!” Buzz Saw announced as we were eating the hot cinnamon rolls he had brought over the Sunday morning after. “Now what”, I replied. This was the point that the disappearance of the “bear sandwich” became a greater mystery. Lorraine said, “It could be a Raccoon.” One More Cast announced “It could be the Cumberland Beast” and, because of my history of fighting skunks on our old farm, I thought that stinkers might have followed us up here north of 8. It became obvious that we needed more evidence that the “bear sandwich” was consumed by the intended target and one of our wishes was that we had a game camera.
Well we got lucky!! After the cinnamon rolls we walked over to the neighbor’s garage sale and what do you suppose we discovered on one of the tables, yep a game camera. $69.99 on sale for $25.
After explaining what we needed the game camera for and how important this project was for the entire neighborhood, Ron (Can I get a deal for cash) Lachenmayer sold it to us for $10. Five dollars apiece sounded like a good deal, of course, I never carry any cash around especially to a garage sale so Buzz Saw coughed up the $10 and we headed back to marvel at our purchase. That’s when we discovered that the camera needed 35mm film and was not a digital camera, still a good deal but we needed the film that I finally found at Jonzy’s for $7.25, plus 8 “AA” batteries that I had to purchase!
Buzz Saw and I are now even in our investment (or I think he owes me).
We secured the camera in a tree with a good view of the stump were the bear sandwich was to be placed. Our grandkids and their friends tested out the camera action by pretending they were bears and sneaking in to snatch a plastic cup off of the stump.
Late that day nearing sunset we all gathered at the stump to view the placing of Buzz Saw’s bear sandwich. “All right you guys check this out,” Buzz Saw exclaimed as he displayed his work of art. Two slices of bread with peanut butter, sliced jalapenos and cashews inside, topped off with an olive. With the camera and bait ready everybody retired for the evening anticipating the disappearance of our bear sandwich and a photo of our mystery dinner guest.
Early the next morning the team gathered at the bear sandwich stump “Now that’s weird” somebody exclaimed. The only thing missing was the olive and the top slice of bread, peanut butter, cashews and jalapenos remained. “We got pictures,” One More Cast said. Eight pictures had been taken, most of which were taken during the set up and testing of the camera, but 3 of the pictures might reveal the intruder. The debate remained if a raccoon, bear, skunk, Cumberland Beast or a neighbor that likes a late night snack visited the stump.
I explained the details of our efforts to Jolene and she replied, “No, no, the jalapenos have to be chopped and mixed up with the peanut butter, slices won’t work.”
After making a correction to the bear sandwich formula the next evening it was deployed on a stump in full view of our new used game camera. “I had a little problem with making the sandwich,” Buzz Saw said, “I rubbed my eyes after chopping up the peppers – boy, did they burn.”
Most of the bear sandwich team had to go home that evening so they had to call in the next day to find out that once again the bear sandwich had disappeared, this time completely gone. Buzz Saw took the camera home to get the film developed and reveal the mystery raider.
“The film was screwed up it didn’t rewind and I opened the camera up.” I wonder if Ron (Can I Get a Deal For Cash) will take it back,” I said. “Not!”
Buzz Saw took the camera into Joe’s Sporting Goods and they said it seems to be working properly but they have a nice digital camera for only $200. Buzz Saw immediately realized that this expenditure was not in our bear budget, he loaded up our old camera with a fresh 24 exposure roll of film fastened it to a tree with a good view of the bear stump and now we wait. Stay tuned.
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