
Anyhow, this particular Saturday, the lake trout were calling. They never call me as loudly as they call Danny, but there was one that was taunting me. (Darn it). My brother Mike joined us too, and he kept saying “well, I never really expect to catch fish in the winter,” and I kept thinking…..this is a really long way to go if we’re not expecting to catch fish.
To hike into Tuscarora…..snowshoe, ski, haul….is somewhere between 8 and 10 miles. In the morning, when we’re packed up and ready to go, we like to say…maybe it’s a little more than six miles. At sundown, when I limp back in the door, I like to think it’s more like 10. It’s a day, that’s for sure.
Joe is sold on winter hiking over summer portaging, and –I think I might be with him on that. I honestly like summer portaging quite a bit, but the Tuscarora portage on this particular winter day was pure bliss.

Tuscarora had about a dozen people on it, which at first seemed like a ripoff to travel all that way, and join in the party, but in the end, no one occupied in our spot at the ledge so, it was rather cheerful to have them across the lake—and hear an occasional yelp when maybe somebody was catching something.

And then after all that, and after I traded my ski boots for my beloved toasty Neos, I stood by the hole and sloooooowly lifted the pole up, and lowerd the pole down. Moving the minnows sooooo slow. Just the right speed, up…………..and down……..up……………….and down…reel a little, try a new depth….up………………..and down………….up………and down………..then, I start chanting in my head again.
A pal’s last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.


They caught some, lost a few, lots of action, Denali supervised. Mike caught a few that he didn’t really expect to catch in the winter,
we hauled it all back, and shuffled through a fish dinner…..unbelievably tasty, it’s true. Something about fresh, cold, water trout—well, we had to smile before our heads dropped. I had one dream that I was 90 years old, and was a really good sport about it. Everyone thought it remarkable, how I could get around so cheerfully with all that arthritis. I was THAT sore, in my dream, in my bed, in my sleep. Had to be 10 miles….


But darn it. I still can’t believe I lost that one.
Snap!