The events depicted took place in Minnesota in 2016. At the request of the fisherman, the names have been changed. Out of respect for the fish, the rest has been told exactly as it occurred.
Five guys with desk jobs packed in an SUV headed north. 250 miles of blacktop in the rear-view mirror. Everybody with their coffee, thinking about the stuff we should have done before shutting down the laptop. That’s pretty much it until truck tires start crushing gravel. Stones pinging off the aluminum trailer rattle loose the pressure and deadlines. Four days of no-cell-service freedom are an hour down Sawbill trail. The air is impossibly crisp. Oxygen clears every thought from your head but adventure. It fuels humor aimed at every other man. We are boys again. Whipping sticks, skipping stones, laughing.
Paddle, portage, repeat. You sweat for six hours getting all the way in. Go far. Go farther. Hundreds of rods, thousands of paddle strokes. A cheap price for what lies beyond.
Koma Lake. For three days the wavering song of loons and sharp screech of eagles will be intertwined with laughter and biting wit.
Day one starts with adventure fishing. Park the boats, hike through brush toward the sound of waterfall. The first cast is like sidling up to a Vegas blackjack table. You might leave with a broken rod. Or the fish of a lifetime.
Turns out there are smallmouth. Broad-backed, bronze rockets that hit a lure like it just insulted their sister on the Jersey shore. One after another. Who caught the most. Who caught the biggest. Points of order for Peter Pan and the lost boys.
On day two the storm rolls in. Batten the hatches, make a tarp tent. Skills that won't get you credit in the annual performance appraisal at work. But make you feel solid on Koma Lake. Everybody in rain gear. Time to watch the thunder roll.
Rain coming in sheets. Water gushing like a broken sewer main. Everybody under the tarp tent. Works like a charm. Congratulations all around. Severe insults hurled in every direction. Everybody laughing again. This trip hits the stomach muscles harder than Crossfit games.
And then its over. Clouds float clear. Dead calm sunset.
No one is in a hurry to pull down the tarps. They stand as a testament to prevailing. We can do this. Our DNA is not so far removed from the voyageurs that paddled before us. Never mind that a hotel bed is two days away.
And then everyone starts talking about Walleyes. How we need to find them and seduce them with pink jigs and leeches. Slip a stringer through each one and batter and fry them. Golden fillets from pristine Laurentian water. The market price is time and sweat and patience that average billionaires can't afford.
And when the sun drops West over North country, we pan the gold fillets and set them over a roaring fire. An uncommon feast.
On the morning of the third day, a chipmunk feasts on manna dropped from his heavens.
And likewise we partake in the last breakfast at Koma lake before turning south. Refreshed by water and air and trees and laughter, outbound across portages and gravel and blacktop and jetstream. Back to our homes.
