The collection gathers up all of Hemmingway’s Nick Adams material, much of which was never published, so there are lots interesting snippets.  Some of them go absolutely nowhere, and some are just crystalized Hemmingway, but they provide a disjointed, fascinating portrait of Adams, who most argue is really Hemmingway himself.

As I said, Big Two-Hearted is the best of the group, mostly because it’s straight fishing.  Sure, I could scratch it and it would bleed post-WWI Adams PTSD self recovery trip, or possibly even more, but I don’t think Hemmingway really cared about that, nor did I.

What I cared about was how he gathered up the grasshoppers, how he heated his can of beans by setting it in the fire, or how he set up his tent by streatching a tarp over a rope tied between two trees. 

Note:  On a recent winter camping trip (see previous), Scott and I used two tarps, ski poles and a log to set up our tent, and Scott cooked our spaghetti by setting the can in the fire.  I might even take to using my choppers as oven mits around the house.

I also cared about the fishing, and how when he loses the big one, it isn’t really a loss at all.  It’s knowing you’re alive, and it’s alive, and the  possibility of that connection through that innocent looking whisp of mono-filament line.  It’s a great read.  Thanks for the tip, David.  When you get off the Big Island, let’s go.

This was my first winter camp experience, brief as it was in the BWCA, and we’d left the west end of Snowbank Lake mid-morning, the temp slightly above zero.  We skied across to the southeast end and trudged the portage to Disappointment before noon, and were about half way across Disappointment when I nearly became a pathetic caricature straight out of Jack London.

We’d hit slush for the umpteenth time, which iced up my sled and made it impossible to pull.  On Scott’s advice (unfailing wise sage of the Norr), I’d taken to unharnessing, and flipping the sled to pound the ice off of it.  I thought I’d stopped beyond the slush patch, but when I stepped off of my skis, I suddenly plunged through the snow crust and was ankle deep in 33 degree slush.

“Explative!”

I scrambled on top of my sled, and by some miracle, my ankle high ski boots were just high enough.  Scott, at this point, was three or four hundred yards ahead of me, a dot in the expanse of white.  I managed to put on my snowshoes and pull the sled to a safer place to pound the ice off it, by which time Scott had backtracked to see whether his prized rookie was going to be come dead weight.

“Everything alright, rookie?”

“Yeah,”  I said.  “Damned slush.”

By the time we reached the east end of Disappointment, Scott (did I mention his wisdom) abandoned the original itinerary – snowshoeing another three hours through the beaver country to Muzzle Lake – and he suggested we set up camp right there.  Still counting the blessings and my dry toes, I concurred.

There, in the shadow of Disappointment Mountain, we stripped of our sweat soaked ski clothes and put on some layers of dry.  I put on about 5 layers, I think.  We spent the afternoon setting up camp, gathering firewood, and then dropping some lines into Disappointment with the expected result.  Dark by 4:30, we swapped stories around the fire, ate spaghetti and bratwurst (Scott’s menu that deserves some serious respect), howled at the moon, fondly remembered Governor Blagojevich and other notables, and took a brisk walk out onto the lake to get the blood flowing before we slipped into our sleeping bags, the real test.  It was here that I would either die, or live to tell the story.

The good news is that sometime in the night, clouds crept in and the temperature started to rise so that by morning, it was a balmy twelve degrees.  If it had crept below zero or if a wind had come up, I wouldn’t have felt any toes come morning.  I thank my father-in-law back in Grygla for praying for me all night long.

Not to Disappoint, the next morning Scott actually caught a fat Walleye (I hooked him first and lost him…yes, really!).  We broke camp about noon as the east wind kicked up and snow started to fall.  Compared to the brilliance of Friday’s sunshine, the near snow-blindness of skiing through the half light of a snowstorm was breathtaking.   Scott, a black speck in a vast, soft edged swirling whiteness, slowly lead me back westward.

The clincher was when Scott stopped and pointed to a dark spot off to the left.

“I think that’s a wolf kill.  How curious are you?”

It looked pretty far, and like a speck, but I said, “Pretty curious.”

We skied over, and sure enough, the deer carcass was bright red with gnawed flesh - nearly all of it gone – but Scott figured they’d be back again to clean it up.  Since we hadn’t seen it on the way out the day before, it must have happened that night under the waxing quarter moon, about two miles from where we’d slumbered.

I didn’t take any samples for the crime lab.  Nature’s justice was served, and my toes were intact for the next trip.

Of course winter camping is dangerous, but then again, so it taking a shower.  I arrived home that night to learn that my sister-in-law had fainted in her shower and broken her jaw when she hit the vanity.  She’s got her jaw wired shut for three weeks now.  Poor kid.  She’s got some tough sledding ahead of her.

I’d rather have a cold toe any day of the week.

Note:  I took no pictures because there’s enough futzing with gloves off as it is on a trip like this.  But maybe next time.

Of the other three muskies, I had one on the line.  I’m sure it was 43 inches to Ken’s 42 shown here, but we’ll never know, now, will we, because I couldn’t land her.

It went like this.  It was the morning of our second day on the Little Fork.  Upon breaking camp, we’d fished a long, slow hole adjacent to our campsite, and this is where Ken landed Wilma.  It was a grand battle, and we all beached to assist.  Ned Dagler is shown here gingerly handling her in Ken’s home made “muskie cradle.”  She was released unharmed to attack again.  Say “muskie cradle” in hushed, reverent tones.

With renewed hope in out hearts, we drifted through some rapids into the next hole, a much smaller, cozier one.  i was casting with an ancient 3 treble crank bait that I’d inherited from the famed Illinois and New Mexico fisherman, Verlin Biggs (crappie king of Lake McFee, but that’s maybe another story).  Anyway, since it wasn’t the recommended #7 Shad Rap, I really wasn’t ’spectin much in the way of muskage, but suddenly there she was.

There was no mistaking her, really.  It was like snagging a stump, only not like snagging a stump at all, and I didn’t want to believe it for the first two seconds, but as I cranked slowly, I watched her swim down stream at us, pass the canoe, then turn and head straight under.  Scott in the front of the canoe calmly announced, “Fish on.”

She didn’t seem to notice me for those first 30 seconds, and I knew my job was just to tire her out and give her line, but it just seemed like she was going to let me reel her in.  That changed in a hurry.

Suddenly she headed back upstream and was pulling line out of my real at an alarming rate.  I should have relaxed the drag to give her whatever she wanted, especially considering the light tackle I was using and the age of my line, but all I could do was hold on.  Too late.  My line went slack.  She’s down there somewhere, Verlin’s lure dangling from her jaw.  She’ll shake it off.

I can replay it, and I know what I’ll do next time, but that doesn’t take the edge off my disappointment; however, I have fond memories of that 60 seconds she and I were connected by a nearly invisible strand of monofilament.  If I’d landed her, I’d have let her go, anyway.  One could argue that the only real difference between Ken’s success and mine is that I elected to bypass the muskie cradle.  Err…I’m not buyin’ that either.

Carolina Chad had close encounters with two more.  One chomped a small mouth bass on his stringer in half, and later another followed his monster lure up to the boat.  It would have been nice for he or Wylie Bracie to land one, since they’d come all the say from Myrtle Beach.  Above is the whole crew.  Left to right:  Dagler, Ken, Scott, Chad, and Wylie.  You won’t see a better line up at the Koochaching county jail.

Of course, a true wilderness experience is never complete without wildlife (I’m sparing you the image of the bull simlutaneously drinking and urinating).

And hot pursuit.

And just general peacefulness.

There’s more to tell, mostly about expressing oneself, but in general, most things that happen on the Dagler Stretch stay on the Dagler Stretch.

Monday was opening fishing for the stretch of the St. Louis River between the Fond du Lac bridge and dam. The walleyes spawn there, and the DNR likes to protect them until May 19. If you’re a spawning walleye, this is a date that should be noted on your calendar.

Scott, my fishing compatriot and all around guru, likes to fish the “honey hole” from the bank, standing about thigh deep in the dam’s tailrace foam. Here he ties a swell snell knot sporting his late May chop.

We parked at the city park gate, closed for some reason, along with about a half dozen vehicles that had beaten us to it. Hiking up river, the best part was watching Beckett the Swede racing ahead and back, sticking his golden nose into everything. It’s been nearly six months since Pepper died, so I noticed I was coming down with a slight doggie fever. When I mentioned this to Scott, he said,

If you’ve had a golden, you’ll never have another dog, but if you haven’t, keep it that way. They’re the best natured animal on the planet, but they’re prone to every disease on the planet known to man, and some he don’t know. Some are even allergic to their own fur, and no one sheds like a golden.

I don’t know if that will deter me, but it will probably deter my wife.

The river was pretty busy with a flotilla of Lunds when we arrived, which surprised me, since I hadn’t told a soul about this trip or the secret date. Word apparently gets out. On the advice of my brother Nate, I started with a floating jig and minnow tethered to the bottom by a quarter ounce weight. The idea behind this sort of river fishing is that it allows one to take a nap while resting ones rod on a nice Y branch. This turned out to be a very pleasant method, and as luck would have it, not a single fish disturbed my slumber. Scott, up stream from me and no napper, finally pulled in an 18″ walleye, and woke me to clue me in to where it was at. We started jigging the upper end of the honey hole and it wasn’t too long before I had my walleye. She was under the 16″ length restriction, so I let her swim away, but it was nice to meet her, even if I didn’t eat her.

After spending most of the morning and part of the afternoon in this fashion, we packed up, ate some egg salad sandwiches, chased Beckett into the van, and headed up to where the rest of the world was doing its normal business of pushing virtual paper and making widgets.

None of us missed that.

Minnesotans, in theory, exit the womb with fishing tackle (poor mom), but I’ve been a pretty weak fisherman through the years, partly due to the fact that I don’t drive, and partly doe to the fact that I’m lazy. However, after Thursday, this may change.

My bothers Dave and Nate, and my friend Scott Norr have been trying to make a fisherman out of me for six or seven years now, and it may finally take. Scott had me out for my first steelhead run on the Sucker River up the shore from Duluth, and I’m going to come clean right away. It was the big one. It got away. It hardly matters. What matters was having it on.

Steelhead are naturally reproducing rainbow trout that were introduced into Lake Superior and its tributaries about a hundred years ago (give or take fifty). Every spring they run up the rivers for a few weeks to spawn, and this is when some guys get obsessed. The weather is crappy, the water is 36 degrees, they’re in it up to their hips, and steehead guys are in paradise.

We’d been out for a couple of hours drifting yarn flies (don’t I sound like an old hand?). We were working upstream from the Old 61 bridge, and the river was a torrent, though it had calmed down considerably since a downpour earlier in the week. Scott looked mighty perfesshinal wading through the torrent or winding through the bank brush. Me, I looked like a moron with two left feet, but I was slowly getting the knack of drift fishing.

I lost one fly to the bottom, and Scott coached me through my first snell knot. I decided to change my yarn fly from green to pink, and I’ll brag here. That decision was the key.

Oh, why be modest. That decision has changed my life.

Back out in the current, the sky threatening to open, the falls ahead of me roaring like Niagara Junior, I was back doing my double handed drift thing, thinking that this was a lot of fun and maybe we’d catch fish the next time.

Then there was a new bump I hadn’t felt before.

And then SHAZAM!

I’ve hooked plenty of fish through the years and enjoyed every one of them, but this was something new. This was like, HOLY CRAP! My adrenaline nearly popped my cap off. Lady steelhead was pumped, too.

She shot up into the falls for a second, and then shot down right past me (nearly through my legs) and started pulling line out of my reel faster than I could reel it back in. I called to Scott, who was lost in his own reverie, but as soon as he saw what was happening, he coached me something fierce.

“Move downstream with her,” he crooned, “and don’t fall.” Here’s where I did my Brad Pitt impersonation. I was reeling like crazy and still losing ground, so Scott had me tighten the drag. Meanwhile, I was speaking in tongues and maybe shouting a few things that would make mom cringe, stumbling down the river to a solid spot to take my stand.

On the other end of the line, with the current in her favor, lady steelhead was still winning, and as I tried to pinch the line and haul the rod back to gain some traction against her, the line went slack.

A let down? Well, sure. I didn’t even get a good look at her, but word is that nobody lands their first steelhead. On the upstream, for close to a minute (that might be a stretch) I was completely absorbed in something beyond words. I could work really hard to try to describe it here, but I would fail. Until I felt it, I could never have understood.

I want to that do again. Definitely the pink yarn. Definitely pink. Pressure’s on for number two.

It’s true. In the winter time, Minnesotans drive out onto lakes, drill holes in the ice, huddle in little houses for hours, and wait. I spent all day last Saturday with my brothers, Dave and Nate, on Upper Red Lake, and then all day Monday with Dave and his friend Bruce on Lake of the Woods. I caught one fish too small to keep, and I caught it about ten minutes before we packed up and left on Monday. I was really pleased.

I’m kicking myself that I didn’t bring a camera to supply more documentation, so you’re looking at some generic internet photos used to promote ice fishing vacations. You’ll never see these getaways given away on The Price is Right, but there are thousands of folks out on the ice each weekend in Minnesota.

What are they doing? This is a good question. I think a Top Ten list is the best way to approach this subject:

1. Drinking lots of cheap beer (Grain Belt is my favorite)

2. Discussing trucks that went through the ice recently, how they got them out, what fines they paid, and what morons they are

3. Eating cheesy sausages boiled to perfection in lake water

4. Grilling venison chops from November’s deer hunt (also done in the cold from small, portable buildings)

5. Eating venison chops from a “plate” made from an over-turned pickle bucket washed with a handful of snow

6. Remembering fish that we’ve caught on other trips (necessary because we aren’t catching any on this trip)

7. Peeing in public under more sky than Montana’s within earshot of the fish house, and commenting on force, volume, velocity, duration, and color.

8. Privately wishing we’d stayed home to watch the cooking channel and help our wives clean the mini-blinds

9. Letting go of every gas formerly withheld in polite company

10. Swearing as if it’s something we do every day without thinking about it

Notice that catching fish isn’t on the list. Dave did haul in a 19 1/2 inch walleye Monday. With that and two smaller ones Bruce brought in, we did feed Dave, Vicki and I Monday night in Warroad. This is about as good as the fishing gets, however. There are other people who do better – who even do well – but these people have never been me or anyone I know. They’re spoken about with reverence and mystery. They’re something akin to Yeti or Sashquach.

Still, it’s a good time. Saturday was a warm day – about 30 degrees. Monday was sub-zero with a wind our of the northwest that made your eyes water after ten seconds.

It was great to be with my brothers and rehash the old days on the farm. What’s more, they provide all the equipment. If you can match their offer, any time you want to go, let me know.