The next morning started early once again, but I was not in much of a hurry; the wind was still howling, if not worse than the day before. It seemed I better not end up on the other end of the lake, lest I should become stranded downwind. I sipped at my coffee while I did what casting I could do from shore, but that wasn’t working.

I snuck my canoe around the point and fought my way to the extreme northeast corner of the lake. After some time, I had covered the less-windy portions of the shoreline and was resigned to heading back to the campsite. On my way past the point, I made a cast across it, more or less in desperation. Something hit my floating Rapala, jumped twice, and threw the hook. I ducked back into the shelter behind the point and wedged the canoe against a log so I could keep casting. It dawned on me that a jumping trout would probably be a rainbow trout, which caused me to want it more than anything. Cast after cast produced nothing. Then another strike, jump, and spit. My blood was on fire with frustration and rage. I could not stand the thought of giving up; clearly that fish was active and there to feed, and it seemed only a matter of time until I would prevail. I grabbed my other rod, adjusted the bobber, and sacrificed another leech in my quest to take that trout. The better part of an hour was spent working all the parts of that point with no more action. Despite my sheltered location, the wind and cold were slowly having their way with me and my body began to shiver uncontrollably. I dislodged the canoe and set it slowly into motion.

In one more desperation cast, I tossed my Rapala far over the point. Something hit it with gusto and fought me every inch of the way. When I could see it was another lake trout, I could have been disappointed, but knew that second laker would fill out my limit and make a good consolation prize. It was a very respectable fish, and I was more than happy to lay that fish alongside the other one in the bag of snow and call it a trip.

With enough time left in the day for a trout dinner at home, I didn't waste much time packing up camp. As I rode the wind down the shoreline, a fisherman on shore waved and asked if I'd had any luck. With only moments to go until I left the wilderness, I gave up on trying not to talk to other people. I simply said, "okay," and continued. I was glad I didn't snub him because he came down the trail and into the parking area while I was packing up. He turned out to be a nice guy, and apparently has fished that lake every day of the first week of the season for many years.

Having had my best trip ever to the BWCA (despite what I consider violations to my personal space), I was simply aglow all the way down the Gunflint toward Grand Marais. I picked up some smoked fish and the best cake donut I've ever had, and continued to process my experience all the way home. The sights, sounds, smells, and overall flavor of that place at that time of year have been permanently stamped in my memory. I will be forever grateful to those who had the wisdom and foresight to preserve that place for me.

***************************

Inspired by that landmark trip in my life, I made a short video that features the sights, sounds, and silences of my trip: https://youtu.be/MhFvw8oUhMo