Lake

A Rite of Passage

Standing shivering by the shore at 8:30 AM, I eye the dark lake water in the shadows of an overhanging tree. The sun had barely warmed the sand of the tiny beach, and the dew formed during the night still lay thick in the grass near the walking path. Just a few months earlier, the lake had worn a  cap of ice, and today our group of seven- and eight-year-olds huddled together, waiting for the swim instructor to herd us into the water. I used the time attempting to convert my little towel into a blanket.  

A piercing whistle followed by a deep voice bellowing in the distance, “everyone in the water,” signaled the dreaded start of the lesson. There were generally two methods of complying with “everyone in the water,” and I found them both equally unappealing. You could run a few steps and perform a quick surface dive that cold shocked your entire body, or the timid tiptoe method where you feel each inch of skin succumbing to the cold with an extra grimace reserved for when the water reaches your privates.

Swimming lessons in the Land of 10,000 Lakes were considered a necessary skill for kids growing up there. The instruction lasted 45 minutes, and surprisingly after being in the water, the more uncomfortable choice became exposing your wet skin to the cool morning air. This revelation caused the kids to hunker down, with only their heads above the water like a bunch of turtles.

Three years later, on a hot sticky July afternoon, I again found myself standing by the shore of a larger beach on the same lake. This beach had a sprawling area of sand, a lifeguard, glistening bodies lying about, and the smell of suntan lotion. The lake’s blue water sparkled like diamonds in the sunshine. It was an idyllic summertime scene, but I knew the water would still be cold.

Out beyond a string of yellow buoys tethered to the bottom and held in line by a nylon rope, I watched older kids playing on a wooden structure that looked like it had magically risen from the depths. Nearly 12 years old, my self-imposed imprisonment behind the roped area had gone on for too long.

The water depth at the buoys was nearly five and a half feet, and on windy days I sprang up slightly off the bottom to avoid waves hitting me in the face. I had watched the swimmers on the private wooden island all summer, a place where they escaped from screaming toddlers and their doting parents. I couldn’t bear to let another season pass without overcoming my fear of crossing that treacherous stretch of water.

Looking down at my blue swim trunks with their traditional drawstrings, that invariably formed knots so tight they would challenge superman to undo. The knots rendered the suit unadjustable at the waist and therefore unsafe for diving.

Tiptoeing into the cold waters, I made my way to the buoy line again. I could feel the slant of the lake bottom tilting into deeper waters beyond, and on other occasions, while still clinging tightly to the rope, I slipped underneath to see at what point the depth was over my head.

It was probably only twenty yards to the dock from the line, but it looked more like the lake’s center when the water was choppy. I did not imagine a gentle slope continuing from the buoys to the dock; I believed it dropped sharply like a cliff. I would be swimming over a deep chasm inhabited by lake creatures, maybe even a wreck or two from previous violent storms.

I had made up my mind that there was no turning back today. Slipping under the rope, I dog paddled in place for a moment, took one last look at the shore, and started swimming frantically toward the dock. Not knowing what lay in the murky water below, I kept my feet racing, and after just a few minutes, I looked up, elated to see I was close to the dock.

Reaching the structure, I clung to one of its corner legs; the green and slimy algae made the wood hard to hold. I saw kids flying above me to land spectacular belly flops and impressive cannonballs further out in the water.

Inching to the ladder, I carefully climbed out of the lake while ensuring my trunks stayed in place. The deck was wet and looked small and less interesting than I imagined. Looking back toward the beach, the distance to the buoys also shrunk. A sudden gust of wind against my bare skin combined with the adrenalin from the crossing caused a shiver throughout my body. Looking back at the shore, I spotted my towel lying in the warm sand, and I couldn’t help thinking of those early morning lessons where the last thing I wanted to do was swim in a cold lake.

The One That Got Away

Ever since Brad Johnson turned off the main highway onto the secondary road taking him into the National Forest, he kept looking into the dense foliage for a hint of blue. He knew from maps, and his friend Bobby, that there was an enormous lake hiding somewhere behind the trees.

His old Jeep, in its 19th year of service, five of them under his stewardship, was so far behaving. At one time in its life, it had been a bright red, but now more closely resembled the rusty maroon body shops use as a primer. The Jeep did not have a roof covering, which forced Brad to find shelter under bridges or other structures during rainstorms.

This new patch of road with its cracks, bumps, and depressions was a better match for the Jeep’s strengths than the endless straightaways of the interstate. The last leg of the journey, according to Bobby, would be a dirt road with switchbacks and steep drops, the type of ruggedness scripted for a Jeep.

Bobby, who had found the destination by accident when taking the scenic route back from his parent’s cabin near Lake Superior, started down the dirt road and discovered his car not up to the challenge. Abandoning it in a small clearing near the paved road, he hiked in on foot. Captivated by the beauty of the place, he made notes to be able to find the location again.

Lakes in these northern territories are so large and plentiful; locals take it for granted there will be another around the next corner. Birch Lake, a 50,000+ acre lake sparsely populated due to remoteness and lack of access roads, had all the indications of being a hidden gem.

Brad missed fishing with his Dad, who had died several years earlier. They both had loved the sport, especially fishing for Northern Pike with bright red and white Daredevil lures. Brad, like his Dad, loved everything about the outdoors, how sunlight slanted through a canopy of trees, how early fallen leaves cartwheeled down a road in an unexpected wind, and a sense of awe with each new sunrise. 

Brad saw a meadow-like clearing on his right, which Bobby had told him to look for; it was a distance marker for the turn onto the dirt road in approximately a half-mile. “The turn is easy to miss,” Bobby had said. Looking down at his gages, Brad slowed the Jeep from 50 to 40; he had not seen another car since turning off the main highway nearly 35 miles ago. Getting closer to the half-mile mark, he slowed to 20 and saw a slight break in the tree line on his right.

Making the sharp turn, he discovered a dirt road, barely the width of a car closed in on both sides with heavy pine boughs and hardwoods. A strip of grass ran between the rutted tire tracks standing nearly two feet in height. Brad slowing to a crawl, carefully navigated the tight turns as branches scraping across the Jeeps surface reminded him of fingernails on a chalkboard.

After five minutes of steadily descending toward the lake, he caught his first glimpse of blue.  The lane suddenly gave way to an opening with a glorious panoramic view of the lake—the distant shoreline just visible on the horizon. The final drop to the water’s edge was steep and rugged with exposed rock outcroppings, typical of glacier lakes in the region. Huge boulders near the shoreline randomly marched into the ever-deeper waters.

Cutting the engine, he sat still, listening to a light breeze rustling copper leaves while busy insects labored in the tall grass, and water gently lapped the shoreline. The water’s surface was glassy in the small protected cove below him, and the scene more splendid than Bobby had described.

Brad pitching his tent on the edge of the tree line, searched for firewood as the sun sank lower. Nights at this latitude often dipped into the ’50s even in the height of summer. The lonely sound of a loon drifted ashore from somewhere on the water as the setting sun cut a bright path across the lake.

With a fire started and the last bit of daylight extinguished, an incredible display of stars appeared. Brad, mesmerized by the scene, felt fortunate to be a witness to such a glorious display.

In the morning, Brad brought a small pot of water to a boil on his portable stove. Pouring the water over coffee grounds at the bottom of a French Press turned the liquid into a vibrant brown. The aroma blending with the earthy smells of his surroundings offered a welcome comfort in the coolness of daybreak.

The one-person Kayak sticking partially out the back of the Jeep was secured by a ratchet-style strap to the Jeeps roll bar. Pulling it free, he dragged it down the rocky embankment where a narrow strip of small rocks and sand at the water’s edge allowed him to load the tiny craft before launching. A suspended mist hung above the lake’s surface in the still air, adding an element of seclusion to his departure.

Fishing from a Kayak is an exercise in efficiency with only room for essentials. Brad lashing his rod and reel to the boat’s side had already pared his tackle down to just two lures, and some extra line. Now positioning himself into the small opening in the crafts center, he rocked the boat to free it from the shoreline.

There is something magical about being on the water, suspended above a mysterious world, and seeing the shoreline from a perspective only possible from the lake. The paddling was comfortable in the calm waters, and Brad smoothly alternated sides with even strokes as his muscles warmed up to the consistent motion.

He didn’t have a destination in mind; for now, just being on the water in the tiny craft was reward enough. He remembered as a kid thinking his Dad had some strategy for the places, they would choose to fish on Detroit Lake, but later found out it was just about what felt right on that particular morning.

Outside the cove, with the mist clearing, a stunning sunrise came into view on the eastern shore. Resting his paddle on the Kayaks surface, he studied the lake, looking for a place that felt right.

With daylight increasing, giant boulders on the bottom of the lake were now visible. While fascinated by the underwater scene, a substantial Northern Pike appeared between the rocks swimming in the direction of the shore. Brad stunned by the size of the fish, quickly released the fishing pole from the side of the boat. The bright Daredevil lure secured to the end of the line had its treble hook attached to one of the rigs eyelets with enough tension to cause the rod to bow slightly. Releasing the hook, Brad sent the lure sailing through the air on a quick cast toward the shore.

Winding the reel, he paused ever so often to allow the lure to sink a bit as he attempted to gain the attention of the Northern with a motion designed to mimic a smaller fish. Continuing to turn the reel, the Daredevil came back to the boat, flashing its color and silver underbelly in the clear water. Brad bringing the rod straight up with the lure dangling, arched his arm back and sent the lure flying for a second time toward the shore.

The lure sailed nearly 50 feet before hitting the surface of the water with a plop. This time as he started to reel the lure back toward the boat, he felt a jerk that nearly pulled the rig from his hands. Clutching the rod and reel tightly, he watched in amazement as the end of the rod bent a foot or more into the water and vibrated fiercely as the great Northern turned the Kayak toward the open water. Brad could not manage to turn the reel and was doing well just to hold on. And just as sudden and dramatic as the initial strike, the rod snapped straight, the line went slack, and the fish was gone.

Brad sat still in the aftermath of the struggle on the remote lake in the early morning hours with the sun barely up and realized he just experienced everything he had made the trip for in those few seconds.  

He could see an image of his Dad leaning over the side of their small aluminum fishing boat net in hand, waiting for Brad to bring the fighting fish close enough to the boat to be scooped into the net. He had an overwhelming feeling of contentment at that moment and a renewed faith in the future.