Opening my eyes the next morning, I heard a gentle rain falling on the roof of the tent. Rolling over, I fell back to sleep and slept as hard as I have ever slept in my life. I opened my eyes about an hour later to find Grandpa already up. The rain had stopped, and a quiet rumble of thunder echoed across the sky. “Thunderstorm?” I asked. “It already blew through when you were sleeping. The rain came down like crazy and it thundered quite a bit.” “I can’t believe I slept through that,” I said in disbelief. “That’s a little disconcerting to me. Let’s get out and have breakfast.”

I set up my propane stove and lit it up, setting my coffee pot on top. After downing a cup, I got out French toast bagels, butter, and a pack of bacon, and after a little work had a delicious breakfast for Grandpa and I. “This is one of the best breakfasts I’ve ever had!” Grandpa said as he enjoyed his meal. “You’re far too kind,” I said. “I’ve never actually cooked a real meal before.” “I’d never have guessed,” he said as he took another bite of his French toast bagel. “This is just fantastic. This is better than real French toast.” I love how encouraging Grandpa is. After we finished cleaning up, we enjoyed our devotional time together. Grandpa read his Daily Bread out loud, and then I read a passage of Scripture. Then, we both began to pray together, back and forth, using ACTS (Admiration, Confession, Thanksgiving, Supplication), the structure he had taught me. We praised God, thanked Him for his many blessings, and covered our family and friends in prayer.

I cannot describe to you the incredible feeling I had sitting out in the wilderness with my greatest spiritual mentor and brother in Christ talking to God together. This is why I had brought Grandpa alone with me to the Boundary Waters. I had graduated from high school and wanted to spend this time together in prayer for my future. The memories of this prayer time are etched in my mind forever and will remain with me as I venture off into the great unknown.

“Amen,” I said. “This is why I brought you here, Grandpa.” “That was great,” he said. “I hope our family and friends at home are feeling the effects of our prayers right now,” I stated. A few drops of rain bounced off the brim of my hat. “Funny how God held back the rain until our prayer time was done,” Grandpa said as we headed for the tent. The few drops turned into a downpour, but the tent was nice and dry. I picked up my guitar and began to pick out some melodies. A group of canoes paddled by our campsite and paused to listen to my music. When I was done, I leaned over to the tent door and hollered a hello. “That was great music!” the guy yelled. “Thanks!” “Stay dry!” I called back, as they paddled away. “That’s not something that happens every day,” I chuckled as Grandpa and I settled in for a nap.

The rain finally stopped. We burst out of the tent and enjoyed lunch, and then decided to head for Devil’s Walk Bay to catch some fish. We stayed in the shelter of Long and Gold Islands before crossing one stretch of open water to reach the far shoreline and the entrance to the bay, marked by a distinctive rock outcropping.

A strong wind was blowing, and Saganaga Lake was pretty choppy. Since we had nothing in the canoe other than a spare paddle and a few personal items, the canoe was riding bow high. It was everything Grandpa could do to keep the canoe on course. I had forgotten what it meant to ride a rough sea in a canoe, but I soon remembered how to keep my balance and paddle with endurance. We soon reached the bay, where the water was calmer. The sky threatened to rain again but nothing materialized. I turned to Grandpa with a smirk. “Saganaga’s a lot like a woman,” I said. “One minute she’s calm and smooth and the next minute she gets her period and gets a little rough.” Grandpa laughed.

We began to work the fingers of Devil’s Walk. Our hooks were baited with leeches, purchased from Seagull Outfitters. Grandpa caught a small bass as we worked one inlet. “First fish of the trip!” I said triumphantly as he slipped it on the stringer. We found the spot Don Germain had told us about and began to cast, but never got as much as a nibble. Both of us were desperately hoping to hit on a school of walleye. We decided to troll along one more shoreline in the bay on the way back to camp. Grandpa paddled, while I watched my bobber. All of a sudden, I felt a tug on my hook, and the bobber darted underwater. I set the hook and the fight was on. I reeled with confidence and soon got him up to the side of the boat, where Grandpa was ready with the net. My fish was also a bass, about fourteen inches long. “This is a really nice small mouth,” Grandpa said. “He’ll taste delicious when we cook him up tonight.” Grandpa slipped him on the stringer with the other one, and we headed back to camp. The wind was at our back now and not as strong, so the paddle back to camp was fairly straightforward and simple.

Back at camp, we filleted up the fish. I had to make Grandpa wear his fishing gloves so he wouldn’t cut himself, like he did last time. He finally convinced me to let him keep them off so he wouldn’t screw up the fillet. We soon had four good bass fillets in the bag to enjoy that evening for dinner. When suppertime came, I again coaxed a fire to life to cook our hot dogs. Then, I got out the stove. I washed the fillets, covered them with Shore Station (a flour mixture), and fried them in butter. Grandpa applied a generous amount of tartar sauce and took a bite. “There’s nothing like fish fresh out of the lake,” he said contentedly. After tasting my fillet, I heartily agreed.

We practically licked our plates clean and then used soap and water to finish the job. After our camp was all cleaned up, we played a game of gin rummy, which Grandpa promptly won. I read a passage from Sigurd Olson, and then we both turned in.