The front half of the canoe jutted out over the Ford Suburban’s windshield like the visor of a baseball cap. Haste makes waste, and one should never be in too much of a hurry tying down a big-ass, old aluminum canoe — the recreational equivalent of a battleship — to the top of a car. The tie-er downers, my wife Peggy’s brothers, were teenagers back then and therefore can be forgiven for the priorities of their focus: smoking cigarettes and pants-ing each other, versus the proper securement of the boat. There must have been a lot of uttering of the words, “That’ll do.”
The Suburban rolled out of Mequon and soon clipped north on Highway 51, riding high at 70 mph. The siblings were Vilas County-bound. Peering through the windshield, Peggy noticed the rope shivered slightly just before the canoe disappeared. A gust of headwind lifted it right off the roof and, giving new meaning to the brand Starcraft, launched it like a rocket shot into the stratosphere.
Sometimes you can’t believe your eyes. That’s what it must have been like for the Thompsons that summer day as, for a few long seconds, they looked 360 degrees around the speeding Suburban wondering what became of the canoe. Then…BOOM! It crashed back to earth, nose down, 100 yards behind them in the middle of the highway.
No tourists were hurt in the making of this catastrophe.
Peggy and I inherited that canoe — which is to say, no one else wanted it — shortly after we began dating. Incredibly, every rivet stayed intact after the highway mishap, but the bow was bent into a permanent curve, as though it had broken its nose. This had the effect, if you weren’t sharp with a paddle, of sending your expedition into a chronic left turn. This never bothered us because heck, what’s the use of a lazy day on the lake if you’re not willing to paddle around in circles?
We kept Ol’ Lefty cable-locked to a cottonwood tree behind Christ Presbyterian on Gorham. When wanderlust hit us, you won’t be surprised to learn where we headed: Vilas County. The return of a few yeasty-smelling cases of Huber beer bottles supplemented gas money on the way out of town, and the next thing you know we were motoring past Wausau. Which, back then, could not have been more exotic to me than if Toronto had appeared on the horizon.
This was the early ’80s. In those days Peggy’s dad owned a weed-choked patch of land on Highway K in Vilas County with an old mobile home plopped down onto it. Even though the trailer rarely had power, we’d hole up there, sharing the space with critters of all shapes and sizes and avoiding opening the refrigerator door so as to not unleash the stench of whatever was inside.
One afternoon I poured what was probably a gallon-and-a-half too much raw gasoline onto a pile of rain-soaked birch logs stacked in the fire pit. I bent down and put a match to it. I wasn’t prepared for the sound of the explosion. After the coughing stopped, we laughed at the sight of my face, sans eyebrows, for the rest of the weekend.
Vilas County then, as now, is a rugged, off-road cultural experience. Located about 235 miles north of Dane County, it reminds me of Alaska, especially when encountering some of the camo-clad denizens who live there all year. Among the locals who homestead smack in the middle of the chain of lakes, the tall pines, the winding trails and parklands, there’s an attitude of “you can’t possibly use it up.” As with Alaska, I think that’s why more people litter up there than other places.
Back to Peggy’s dad’s beat-up house trailer. While it kept us out of the weather, mostly, the downside was it wasn’t directly on any water. And you don’t tie Ol’ Lefty, all 150 pounds of her, to the top of a 1974 Volvo only to lie it down in the yard for the weekend once you arrive. So we started looking around for other overnight options.
When Peggy told me there was a state forest campground nearby on Big Lake, I didn’t believe her. Not the fact that there was a campground. What I couldn’t believe was that of all the things to name a lake, some moron had settled for the word “big.”
When we pulled in to look around, I saw for myself that accuracy over aesthetics was the right approach. Big Lake is, for sure, one big sumbitch. 827 acres worth.
And pretty, too. And the eagles! Tons of bald eagles. You like bald eagles? They’re as thick as flying monkeys over Big Lake. It should have been named Bald Eagle Lake. When you first see an eagle there you go, “LOOK! OH LOOK! A BALD EAGLE!” The second time you see a bald eagle you go, “OH MY GOD! LOOK! A BALD EAGLE! LOOK HOW BEAUTIFUL!” A half-a-dozen of them later, things really settle down. You go, “is that a fuckin’ eagle? Another one? Jesus.”
The day of our scouting trip, after marveling at the eagle birds and touring the clean-as-a-pin campsites, we vowed to drive right past the double wide next trip and plunk Lefty down on the waterline at one of the park’s many shoreline spots, each one with its own fire ring.
And we did. And we still do. But that first time was the best.
It didn’t hurt that we were falling in love. That informed every moment of our stay. When you’re falling in love, the moments, even the mundane ones, are enriched and stretch out forever. It’s like getting more than your money’s worth with each sweep of the minute hand. Peggy and I agree that’s why, during our first trip out in Lefty on Big Lake, it didn’t matter that it almost immediately started to rain.
Then, as now, people are surprised to learn that we love to fish. Loving to fish is different from catching fish. We have a deep, hard-earned appreciation of that fact. So when the rain started we simply began to cast our lines.
The difference between a rain shower and a downpour can be measured in how often you have to bail the canoe. I’ll tell you what. The memory of hearing those fat drops plop on the water and ping off the aluminum as I looked to the stern at the dark-haired girl I had a crush on makes me blush even now. And so we floated on in the pouring rain.
Though we were mediocre at fishing, we made up for it with our almost frightening talent for packing beer and snacks onto the water. The purchasing of said items, of course, is what bait stores are for. And what is bait if not food? Food that’s intended to lead to the death of a fish. They’ll also sell you food that leads to the death of a human. You know. Slim Jims, string cheese, Ruffles, french onion dip and Hamm’s.
We enjoyed plenty of all of the above that rainy day. Since between the two of us, I’m the one prone to exaggeration, I recently asked Peggy how long she remembered us sitting in the canoe in the pouring rain that day. She said eight hours! It’s a good thing that we were dressed for it.
Vilas County has become a second home to us over the years — even if that home is a tent pitched in the sand. Peggy’s siblings now have cottages next door in Oneida County, so sometimes we’ll stay there, too. People often mix up Vilas and Oneida counties, which for me is a little like confusing Kentucky with Tennessee. One has horses and bourbon and the other has porn stores. The difference between Oneida and Vilas is not quite as pronounced. For my money, though, the quaint little Muskie Capital of the World (also known as Boulder Junction) is a feature that, all by itself, sets Vilas apart.
I cannot honestly tell you whatever became of Lefty the canoe. I know we took her along to at least a couple of different apartments in those years. I like to imagine a new couple owns the indestructible thing and that, as we speak, they are circling around and around and around, eating junk food and drinking warm beer, reeling in the occasional bluegill, and enjoying themselves in a cool, drenching rain.
