Day Four started gloomy inside and out.

The skies were heavy, the lake was quiet, and the air still held that chilling breeze we’d grown used to. I set out alone that morning, hoping a few hours on the water might shake off the fog in my head. I managed to land one eater-sized bass, but it came at a cost. Three of my favorite lures were lost to the deep, snagged and buried in a mess of sunken, waterlogged timber. And to top it off, no matter which direction I paddled, it felt like the wind was always in my face.

By the time I got back to camp, my mood was shot. Tired, cold, and irritated by the lack of fish and lure loss, I sat by the fire while we passed around the small catch for breakfast. I realized I had nothing planned for the day and no motivation to do anything at all.

So I left.

Around 10:30 a.m., I pushed off again from camp and decided to troll the lake solo, hoping a few hours of silence and steady paddling might reset my mind. I was out there for five hours, just me and the lake. Long enough that the crew back at camp started to worry.

But then, something shifted.

The sun broke through the clouds, the first real sunlight we’d seen in days, and suddenly the mood changed. The breeze softened. The air warmed. And as if cued by the creator Himself, the fishing picked up.

By the time I returned around 3:30 p.m., I had released a pike and a few bass, and brought back two beautiful walleye for dinner. As I pulled up to camp, I saw four relieved faces on shore, happy to see me safe, and even happier to see fish in hand. After the slow start to the day, this moment felt like a hard-earned win.

That night, we skipped the traditional shore lunch and let Matt, the camp chef, go full gourmet. He pan-seared the walleye fillets, then deglazed the pan with butter, white wine, and dill, creating a sauce from the golden remnants left behind. It was rich, bright, and unforgettable. A meal worthy of a supper club, made with just a small pan and a little creativity on the shores of a quiet lake.

We shared it together over the fire, passing the plate and soaking in a kind of fellowship you can only find in the woods. No distractions, no background noise, just stories, gratitude, and good food.

After dinner, we all took a group plunge into the cold lake. A final, frigid dip that somehow brought us closer. We dried off around the fire, passing around a bottle of whiskey to keep warm, feeling the weight of the trip in our bodies and the closeness of our group in our hearts.

That night, as we settled into our hammocks and tents, a steady rain rolled in as we said goodnight to our final night in the BWCA. The wind rattled the tarps and rain pattered steadily above us. It was one of those sleeps where you rest, but never quite fully. Half-dreaming of an early paddle out and the return to the world we’d left behind.

We knew the trip was almost over. But in that quiet stormy night, surrounded by damp clothes, full stomachs, and tired smiles, we felt the richness of what we’d just experienced and how rare it is to live this simply and this fully, even if only for a few days.