Friday, June 13, 2025 Another cold night makes it difficult to crawl out of my sleeping bag. Eventually, I force myself up and start the coffee. I'm not hungry right away, so I paddle out, hoping to catch another walleye for breakfast. Instead, all I find are perch. Back at camp, I settle for eggs and bacon with another mug of coffee. Later, while trolling with my jointed Rapala, my rod suddenly doubles over. A few moments later, a 34-inch northern pike slides into the net. After admiring the fish for a moment, I release it and continue fishing. Not long afterward, I catch a nice walleye for shore lunch. Almost in the exact same location, my rod bends over again. This fish feels even heavier. Without a leader, I'm convinced the pike will bite through my line. I keep steady pressure on the fish, careful not to rush it. Somehow, everything holds together, and soon I'm looking at a magnificent 37-inch northern lying beside the canoe. I stop at another campsite for a short break, one where I camped nearly twenty years ago. I remember that trip well. It was cold, windy, and I was completely unprepared. Back then, I carried only a 40-degree sleeping bag. I slept wearing every piece of clothing I had and still woke up shivering through the night. Since that trip, I've never questioned bringing my 0-degree bag, no matter the season. As I sit overlooking the lake, my thoughts return to my sister. Memories come flooding back, especially of the last time I saw her. She fought her cancer with remarkable courage until the very end. Before leaving her room, I told her I loved her, that I would miss her, and that it was okay to let go. As I walked out the door, I somehow knew it would be the last time I would ever see her. Dinner is my dehydrated Mexican chicken in green sauce with rice and refried beans, wrapped in a tortilla. I spend a few more hours fishing before settling into my chair beside a small fire. Four other groups have arrived on the lake tonight. Before crawling into my tent, I check tomorrows weather one last time. The forecast calls for calm winds, and I'm relieved. Tomorrow I'll be crossing Loon Lake, and large, windblown water is never something I look forward to.