Negative Thirty

When you imagine negative thirty degree temperatures, where would you go to get away from it- a under a toasty blanket by a fireplace, a sauna or hot tub, a sun bathed beach in Mexico? I bet very few of you thought, “Negative thirty!  Why would you want to go anywhere else?” Since I returned to Ely this fall, I’ve been dreaming of blisteringly cold temperatures and a couple feet of snow. But this winter has thrown us here in the Arrowhead for a loop, just as winter for much of the state is unheard of; we finally have enough to play in here in Ely. But, better late than never, and Austin,  Zach, and I were bitten by the adventure bug. We packed up our pulk sleds with all the winter camping essentials and trudged across frozen lakes on Friday afternoon to spend the weekend, as we called it, “Being men!”    

Winter camping isn’t for the faint of heart, as you may imagine, but it’s also not particularly for the right minded person, as you also may be able to tell from our willingness to freeze in horribly cold temperatures. But-joking aside- it isn’t for just anyone. Anyone can go camping, but it’s a whole new concept in the winter: if you fail to plan ahead or ignore essential hints as to the weather or your health, you can die- quickly. Winter camping takes an impressive amount of mastery and method. 

Here’s the method to the madness:

1)      Travel fast and efficient as day light is limited. DO NOT LET YOURSELF SWEAT.

2)      Once you arrive at your site, set priorities: cut a hole in the ice for water, gather firewood and start a fire and start boiling water, and set up the tarp/tent for shelter.

3)      Do everything possible to stay warm, but don’t sweat. (E.g. keep gathering fire wood throughout the day and night.) 

Sounds simple and it is, but there are a lot of factors that need to be taken into account. The real trick to it though-have fun. 

We made it to the boat launch a little after 2:00 pm, got sleds packed and started across Ojibwa Lake around 2:30. At that point, we were behind the eight-ball, had about two hours left of sunlight. Thankfully there wasn’t a lot of snow to trudge through, it was wind swept and packed down most of the way. Coincidentally, we followed fox tracks almost the whole way to the portage into Triangle. He was our spirit guide and any time a snow drift covered his tracks we panicked (jokingly) until they were found again. But trekking over frozen water is also a lot like driving down an interstate across North Dakota- its mesmerizing, hypnotizing- but with a different air. The weight of your sled disappears from your waist after a while, the hiss of it cruising over snow and ice melds with the creaking of your ski pole into a serenade with the wind blowing across your ear. Your mind empties, your eyes pick up on the splendors around you, and things suddenly become half blur-half art.

 

 Then you remember your friends are behind you making smart ass comments and making fun of you and you turn around to flip them the bird and laugh about it some stupid joke. 

Forty five minutes later, we made it to Triangle lake. The cool thing about these lakes is that they are so easily accessible and though Ojibwa has a lot of cabins on it and they allow motor use, once you get a mile away from the launch, you feel like you’re in the BWCA. They’re amazingly beautiful lakes with lots of islands and rolling hills around them with tall pine trees. Triangle is even more beautiful in that it is too far for cars and ice fishers to get to and most people that are there intend on heading into the boundary waters and are on foot. 

 

With an hour left of sun light, we pulled into our little cove. We quickly organized into different jobs: Austin started getting wood, Zach started drilling a hole for water, and I started setting up our tarp for shelter. It didn’t take long and once we got into a rhythm, we got camp set up right as the sun was going past the trees. It’s really the perfect spot; we set up in a little nook along an island. The cove is sheltered from the south, east, and west by islands that are nestled closely together. They act as an adequate wind break and allows for more snow to pile up instead of blow across the open lake. The sunset illuminated the cove as we worked; giving a golden glow on the snow and tall pines that surrounded us.    

The fire spoke sporadically with snaps and cracks and the kettle gurgled softly as the dehydrated chili boiled inside. We finally set in for the night under the crisp night sky after we made camp and organized gear and firewood. It’s a rare and inspiring feeling to hear nothing man-made and to see nothing, to be totally cut off from the world, to just sit and laugh and be free under a few trillion stars. 

By then, it was around negative ten to fifteen, but it wasn’t too bad yet as there wasn’t even a whisper of wind that night. The chili and a liter of hot chocolate kept us warm too. While starring contently in the flames, we joked of past adventures had and shared, swapped stories of any experience that made us laugh, and came up with ridiculously impossible and hilarious circumstances to encounter- nothing out of the usual really, all of except there was more sense of place I feel. There’s a difference when talking about paddling rapids or accomplishing the impossible when indoors rather than talking about doing those adventurous things around a fire, especially when you’re a couple miles from the nearest route back home. Rather than lust and envy behind the memories, there’s appreciation and nostalgia with knowledge that you’re in the midst of creating yet another one to tell. 

Around 9:00 that night, we all started to get cold. It must have finally dropped to the fabled depths by then, so cold that the cloud of your breath would instantly freeze your eye lashes shut and turn anything that was away from the fire and wet, to solid ice in a second. We went for a walk around the ends of the islands to scrounge for wood and to warm up. Have you ever seen the night sky- a sky filled with more stars than black space?  Well, to our surprise, when we happened to look up I swear I have never seen so many stars before. Not in the big sky of Montana or even on Lake Superior, it was like it was so cold the stars all had to come out and huddle together to keep from freezing. I was absolutely amazed, the entire universe seemed to be squeezed together into the respectively little space of sky we had above us. It seemed a shame to go back to the fire after our walk and sleep under a tarp!  But we brought back some nice pieces of wood for splitting in the morning, filled up our water bottles with boiling hot water, tossed them in our sleeping bags, and waited a few more minutes for them to heat up. What we were about to do is one of three of the worst parts of winter camping: 1) stripping to our long under wear, cramming our clothes and essential gear in our bag around us, and going to bed. 2) Waking up and getting out of your bag in the morning. 3) Taking a crap/pee in the middle of the night and being the first one on the slammer in the morning. 

It feels like you’re freezing solid (and there’s some truth to it at negative thirty) and you have to try and move as fast as possible into your cocoon.  And once you’re in and synch the mummy bag as tight as it will go around your mouth and nose, you never want to leave.

The morning was a delight, however very cold. I popped my head out of my bag and looked to see if my friends made it through the night. Around their mouths and on the tarp above them, was thick with frost, a half inch or more.  “Damn its cold!” I laughed. They were awake too and started yelling with joy to hear that everyone was alive. The sun rise was bright and ushered in another brilliant display of the beauty of winter.

For the first few hours of the day, it was sunny and calm and rather enjoyable. As Zach and Austin went ice fishing, I chopped wood all morning to stay warm and got damn good at it too. We sat around the fire and swapped more stories and simply relaxed with nothing to do-though doing nothing was the only thing on the agenda. 

But as the day drew on, clouds rolled in, the wind really picked up and snow started falling sideways. We weighed the pros and cons of staying for another day and watched our tarp get thrashed around by the wind. We all pretty much made the decision at that- its one thing if its cold, its another if its windy and cold. We packed up camp and left a good sized stack of wood for the next weekend we go camping or the next group of travelers to stop by the cove. It couldn't come soon enough, as winter camping melds many different aspects of life together- relaxation, hard work, suffering, and joy. In the end, you're always laughing about it anyways. You don’t need to spend two weeks in the wild to experience it- you just need to get out there. And that’s goes for anything in life.

Frozen Blue

 

To me, a good quality for a person to have is a love and thirst for adventure. Last weekend, Gretchen and I quenched that thirst along the north shore of Lake Superior.  The beautiful thing about winter on the shore is that all of nature is turned into a work of art and is stopped in time. The freestone rivers, majestic waterfalls, and the lake shore itself pose a prime example of this. We visited Split Rock Lighthouse State Park and Cascade State Park, a new experience for me as I’ve never seen the lighthouse before or been further north than Tofte and the Temperance River. I have a secret love affair with the shore during the winter. It’s a beautiful display of elements- or really, one element: H2O. However, no amount of words could correctly portray the beauty and joy of the trip, so below is a collection of photos and videos to help conjure a sense of place. Enjoy.  

Leave No Rock Unturned, Discover the Far Horizon

"Something Special"- a letter home, and the importance of Reflection

"Hey everyone,

Well the countdown is well underway- just about 3 weeks left til I'm home. I truly can't wait!

However- this sort of perception is very broad, the longing and wanting of home is a vast undertaking for one's soul. So instead I will focus on the minuscule events of this summer that have influenced me most. For everything is put together perfectly by tiny, seemingly insignificant pieces- even experiences.

A few days ago, sitting under the awning of my tent in my time-off-chair, I was being swarmed by gnats and other annoying bugs. Swatting and swearing at little things I could hardly see finally took its toll on my patients and so I finally found a specimen trekking through my arm hair. Upon closer observation, I found that what I had come to hate and set out to kill was actually an amazing work of Creation. This tiny bug, no bigger than the ballpoint of a pen was beautiful: with a bright neon green body and white wings that stood together over its back and veined with a thick black line that branched out like a watershed being looked down upon from an airplane window. This tiny little annoying thing was a masterpiece and I instantly let the bugs do as they wished around my head and sat in contentment that around me was something truly amazing....there was no way I would let them into my tent though, death would come swiftly if any of them even tried to cross that line.

Yesterday I took two guests for a float down the river. It was one of those odd days on the Bighorn. My clients were Joe and Shawn, brothers-in-law from Arizona, and avid fishers but first-time fly fishers. Joe had fly fished before but it was Shawn's first time ever.  There was lots and lots of activity especially on the surface and I knew exactly what they were eating, there were not too many boats on the top 3, but for whatever reason the fish did not commit to taking anything casted by man. Of all the professional, long time guides that were on the section with me yesterday I only saw two of them hook up with a fish. But as the old saying goes and holds true, "That's why they call it fishing, not catching." And for these guys, they took that acceptance with flying colors and used the few hours we were out as a learning experience over a fishing trip. However it was the appreciation of frustration that curved my interest. I often tell people that I love fly fishing because it pisses me off more often than not! You're forced to mimic a  minuscule part of the ecosystem, nearly perfectly, in order to spur success. A tiny variable over looked and it will spell utter failure, as it did for many of us on the river that day. But we all loved it.

Tonight I went fishing on a whim, and turned out to find an old friend in the valley of wild flowers and grasses along the river. The lone black stallion, Fernando, as I call him. Fernando is an interesting character, and all the times I've seen him he's alone, usually standing under the same tree, doing his own thing on his own time. Last year, Fernando was seemingly shy and cautious anytime I would approach him, as I've always been fascinated by his charm and antisocial nature and would try to form a bond with food and a touch. Usually when you pass him by, he'll glare at you, watching you almost in shock or fright. But today, I was walking down the trail and saw him  in the distance, a stunning figure alone in a speckled valley of color and a backdrop of golden mountains and purple skies. And as I approached him, I started clicking my tongue to let him know I was coming so he wouldn't get scared. He looked up from grazing and glared at me for awhile, I stopped silently and waited to see what he would do. A breeze rolled through the cottonwoods on the bank and rustled the grasses, he huffed a sigh and lowered his head and I clicked and called his name and he walked up to me. A first ever! He whinnied and huffed and stuck his nose in my chest and at my feet as if he was saying, "Welcome back, where have you been?" I patted his head and grabbed his ear and he went back to grazing and I kept on down the trail in search of hungry fish...

After landing a nice 17" trout on a large streamer (minnow imitation fly) I called it a night. And on my way back I noticed something that sent me straight to the savannah- two sand hill cranes standing in the middle of the field. I strayed off the foot path and slowly stalked the great birds and was was overcome by almost other-worldly perceptions. What appeared to be so small from a few hundred yards away now stood just as tall as I and we were the only ones in the field, with the mountain behind them and sunset behind me showing everything off in immaculate colors. Time slowed as the distance closed, as steps became planned and steady. I came within twenty feet of the majestic birds and was honored to know that their migration spans the world and back, and here they are in front of me. I stopped as they started to walk away from me. It seemed prehistoric or more really beyond words, something straight out of a national geographic magazine as they swayed and strolled their way through the tall grasses. And once they stopped again, I turned and went back to my little tent happy to know that not only will I hear their exotic calls at twilight, but now even more happy I had finally seen the musicians.   

As a reminder, always remember the little things. They are so easily missed in today's life of action, yet play such a crucial role in even our daily being.

Love,

Evan"


In the field of Outdoor Leadership and Outdoor Education, reflection is the most important part of the entire experiential process. Through reflection, we can figure out what went wrong, what went right, and what we could do differently to improve in the future. But it can be, and should be, inducted into almost every facet of our life. We can divulge into a deeper and better amount of experience when we simply talk about it and put perspectives and thoughts around the situations, then revealing hidden meanings, hidden realizations and understandings and creating lasting influences on our outward and inward perceptions. We can apply this to school, work, relationships with friends, spiritual life, even the family vacation. In July, I became good friends with the Wittry's of Denver, CO. At the end of their stay, just before they left, we circled up, put our arms around each other, and I told them, "Reflection is the most important part of any experience- and I'd really like to hear what you liked best about your trip." Connor started it off by saying how he "really liked being together as a whole family," and how he missed times like those since he left for college. Then Brennan went and said how she was happy to have spent so much time with her family and felt like they all got to know each other better than when they arrived. Eddy, the dad, holding back tears, said, "I'm happy I got to spend so much quality time with my family too, its the most important part of my life." A simple question revealed a powerful connection.

I swear by the use and practice of reflection as a way to better understand who you are, who your peers are, and how you will grow from your experience- good or bad. To focus in on the little things in life can reveal huge connections and broaden perspectives to vast horizons never imagined before, or at the same time, it can narrow in on traits or defining moments that explain exactly who you are and why. I would urge you to take a few moments everyday, at really any point, and reflect on anything and everything you have done that hour, that day, year, decade, and eventually your whole life. Examine all the little bits and pieces- Leave no rock unturned. 

Friends, Honor, and Good Fishing

I’ve spent the 2010 and 2011 summers on the Bighorn River at Cottonwood Camp: guiding, shop keeping, maintenance working, and grounds keeping- you name it, I’ve done. And the past two winters, I’ve returned to the camp for a Christmas present and get together with my dad. Right now, I’m out on the deck of the fly shop- and it feels just like home.

It amazes me, from personal experience and from working with so many customers over the years that no matter how far you travel from, you always arrive with a smile on your face and leave with one too. This trip was no exception. Dad and I barely made it out west this year and if it weren’t for sheer determination and last second decision making, it wouldn’t have happened at all. We drove west from Minneapolis after picking him up from the airport at 6:00am (he flew all night from San Francisco!) Thirteen hours later we arrived in the dark valley, stars blazing in the cool night, and walked into the fly shop greeted by smiles, laughs, and a ferociously-loving pack of dogs just like so many times before.

The next day we floated all thirteen miles of the river, a tall order with a novice fisherman and short time frame of day light. My dad, never using a shuttle company before, and coming from a large city, had some difficulty wrapping his mind around how we could leave the car unlocked, with the keys in the gas cap, and pay (and trust) someone to drive our car thirteen miles to the take out and leave it there. Also that leaving our boat unattended and anchored on shore wouldn’t result in it mysteriously vanishing behind someone else’s truck. “This place still runs on the honor system, it’s really amazing actually.” And he’s completely right about that. I’ve written about my experiences on the Bighorn for two years now and a reoccurring theme is: trust and honor. I favorably remark time and time again that Fort Smith is still a place where people help each other out, can trust you and others, stick to their word, and a good reputation goes a long way toward success. Good traits to have in this day and age, and a blessing to be a part of I’d say.  

Warm weather had brought more fisherman and hunters (way more than last winter!) The crowd was nothing compared to summer time but, being Minnesota trout fisherman, we like our space and variety of wade fishing. Once we got past three mile the group really spread out and we had a great opportunity to hit some of my favorite spots that, previously in summer, were flooded out due to high water and/or were overrun with other fisherman. Our second stop past three mile was a small side channel called by a few names, but I’ve always know it as, “Rattle Snake."

It’s a small side channel, not even a hundred yards long and maybe forty feet wide and the top third of it is a beautiful riffle that bends along a high bank with a small creek running into it on the bend. At first I thought it was going to be a bust, as we anchored a few shotgun blasts went off from the channel going river left had us questioning our safety, then our first few casts came up with nothing. But as we moved into the middle of the riffle and started casting into the shade along the undercut bank, it was one after another. The riffle was almost boiling with fish as they even came to the surface to strike at our orange strike indicators! Dad also caught the “King-Daddy Trout,” a fish of well over twenty inches and sheer muscle. It took his fly and thrashed like none other and we worked together to and the fish, as it was determined not to run back toward him upstream. He let his line on, keeping tension out as I calmly waited downstream with the net, it was a beautiful sight. Dad masterfully kept his rod bent like a rainbow and let his reel scream out line just the right amount. The riffle was totally illumined by bright sunlight and flashes of golden bronze flickered beneath the crystal clear water like a torch through an old window. A few moments later I waded a little further into the stream and extended the net below the surface, and with a cheer, rose my net with the King himself.  

 

We spent a couple of hours there catching lots of fish (we even trippled up!) and sharing many laughs until the crowd started catching up with us, and we continued on downstream again. 

 

 (Three in one)

We tried a few other places with similar results and with about two hours of sunlight left we tried one last hole that really has no name (I call it “Secret Spot”,) but in summer it was where I witnessed the natural splendor for the great San Juan hatch. I was fishing with my outfitter, Roger, during the high water and came up on this spot fishing a double san juan worm rig. Towards the end of the drift, I was pulling my line up to recast (mind you- I had two flies on that look like worms) and a huge trout came flying out of the water after them! As we rounded the river bend and gained sight of the spot, memories of large fish flooded my mind again. We pulled over and I stormed my way up thigh high fast current to fish well above the riffle along a cut back. A couple casts later I landed a chunky nineteen inch fish. Netted and released and not five minutes later I casted straight up stream from me and let my line drift back through the reflection of the sun, for a little while I was fishing blind. But then, just as my tiny indicator floated back into sight, there was a legitimate tug, a pause, and then one of the greatest fights a trout has ever given me.  It took me by complete surprise when the fish ran straight up stream and even kept taking line off the reel once it had eaten up my sack, it thrashed and pulled and as soon as it got bored of going up, then it turned right around and flew down stream and then across the current toward the middle and back again. I ran or more realistically, slid and stumbled, around the river bed chasing the fish and trying to maintain what little control I had. Finally I managed to cock my wrist and get its head above water, cutting his last run short and just barely pulling him back to my net. It would appear both of us grappled with kings, as my trophy trout greeted me with the largest kype I’ve seen yet. He was shorter than dad’s fish, but bulky, tough, and mean. It was an honor to shake hands with him. 

 (My Trophy)

The next day windy, fifty to sixty mile per hour winds- sustained. We tried fishing at three mile but it was way over crowded. So after lunch, we hiked down from Afterbay to the first island and spent a few hard hours on the first half of the side channel there. We caught some fish, not as many or as big as the day before but we strengthened our bond through the shitty-ness of the weather.  

All in all, it was a fantastic trip. It was short, but it got me back in touch with my passion, as Northern Minnesota is all but frozen over. You know it’s time to go fishing when you’re casting an imaginary rod as you down the hall and row an invisible drift boat as you sit in front of the lap top. It’s good to have a home away from home, a place where you can go to escape, to live dreams, to reignite passion. Fort Smith is one of those places for me, a place where friends, honor, and good fishing still abound.