Grand Marais was a welcome sight that Friday night in early August after some six hours of driving and listening to Tracker’s endless feature-function-benefit diatribe. “Listen,” I said. “How about we just check into the motel, you buy me dinner and a few drinks and I’ll share my years of belly boating experience with you. In fact, I’ll throw in a few fly fishing tips too.” 

It worked every time.

The plan went smoothly as we tipped Old Ezra until the wee hours. “Let’s get to bed and start early for Cogitation Pond. If you drive, I’ll navigate and we should arrive about 9 AM,” I said.  It’s important to note here that map reading sounds easy and may even appear elementary to the novice, but the skill required to doze for a few hours then awake with the keen sense of location is a practiced art.

For example, once Tracker John and I had the occasion to drive from Minneapolis to Duluth to attend a weekend boat show. Had I not awoke after a three-hour meditation, Tracker would have had no idea we were just outside of Fargo. At first, Tracker began to claim we had wasted time going the wrong way and that if I had been awake and reading the map and such hogwash, we would have been to Duluth already.  Once I explained that this circuitous route allowed us the chance to stop at a few local landmarks like Ellen’s Tap and House of Electrolysis, and that this could actually be considered a shortcut to Duluth in some sense, Tracker became appreciative of my map reading and he seemed eager to pay for the extra tank of gas required for such a high level of fun and excitement.

“Listen,” I said. “Cogitation Pond will be a lot easier to fish this time with our belly boats.”

“Yup, that sure was a long portage last year with the canoe,” Tracker chimed. 

Mentioning to Tracker that if we should be attacked by the bear that hangs around the boat landing this trip, he won’t need to run that quarter-mile holding the canoe over his head and I won’t be forced to run ahead of him clutching our fish. Tracker was excited!

Cogitation Pond is loaded with trout: rainbows and squaretails. It’s the kind of place I can take Tracker and be assured both of us will catch trout. The only snag with Cogitation is that it’s overpopulated with bear and moose – a kind of magnet for ill-behaved wildlife. But I explained in advance to Tracker that this was only a mild inconvenience and that if he took the precaution of bathing beforehand, we wouldn’t be as likely to run into the problems we experienced last year.

I should explain here that Tracker’s composure is not what it once was when it comes to coping with big game. I guess the whole problem started in Boy Scouts while camping at the Wilderness Site. (That’s what they called the remote campsite set aside for the scouts who could not pony-up the five dollars required to secure a site closer to things like safe drinking water. It meant that you didn’t get fed, slept in bear infested woods and swam for your merit badge in water occasioned by icebergs and leeches). We long-since reconciled our differences about the bear looking for the Kit-Kat bars I stashed in Tracker’s sleeping bag. I simply explained it was an act of Christian Giving on my part and that it was out of a life-saving necessity to beat the bear over the head with a club as it mauled Tracker’s body. That a few strikes went astray was unavoidable and should be expected given the circumstances.

Setting camp deep inside Cogitation Swamp was fairly uneventful. After demonstrating to Tracker how easily my belly boat inflated using my portable electric air compressor, Tracker proceeded to inflate his tube with Bob’s high-tech manual bicycle pump. It gave me ample time to further instruct Tracker in the Art of Belly Boating while I enjoyed several cold ones.

The anticipation left Tracker nearly speechless as we approached Cogitation Pond via our lucky shortcut through the swamp. Carefully checking our backside for the boat-launch bear, we reached Cogitation as expected. I expertly launched my craft and paddled to deeper water as I watched Tracker assemble his gear. It was a painfully slow process to observe and not unlike his tee-off routine made famous at the Boggy Swamp Golf and Sailing Club.

During Tracker’s first wet-run, it became apparent that he was approaching the weight capacity of his craft. “Are you sure water is supposed to dribble over the top of my waders when I paddle?”, Tracker asked.

“It’s important that you try to remain upright in your tube at all times. Most boats take on some water. Perhaps you should have purchased the bilge pump accessory from Bob,” I explained.  Tracker agreed.

“My safety strap seems to have malfunctioned,” Tracker exclaimed. “…yes, indeed, it appears to have ripped in half – some sort of structural deficiency I suspect.”

“Luckily for you, I have a spare strap which should work. I’ll be glad to loan it to you in exchange for one of those Diving Green Caddis. In a #16 please,” I added.

“Oops! How unfortunate! How deep do you think it is right here?” Tracker asked.

“Why?”

“I believe my right swim fin has detached itself and has sunk to the bottom.”

“Oh, it’s probably no more than 30 or 40 feet deep”, I added.  “By the way, Tracker, weren’t you the one who got that diving merit badge in Scout Camp?”

Now, I would never begrudge a friend in need, but with only one swim fin Tracker was out of luck. He could only paddle his belly boat in circles. I contemplated the hopelessness of the situation and quickly realized that I could only be of assistance to Tracker by providing some entertainment – the entertainment one receives while watching another man fish. “Well, no sense in wasting all this daylight. I’ll just check out the Monster Hole and maybe your fin will resurface …you know, like drowning victims do a day or two afterwards,” I reasoned to Tracker.

The plan had all the probability of working when out of the corner of my eye I saw movement on the shoreline. As my good eye focused, I realized I was spotting a large cow moose feeding. “Hey, Tracker, look at the moose!”  

In retrospect, I should have been more coy in announcing our company to Tracker having forgotten about his composure problem. “Perhaps, we should paddle to shore,” chirped Tracker as he watched the moose enter the water and swim directly toward us.

Not wanting to upset Tracker anymore than possible, I agreed with his recommendation. We paddled and reached the safety of shore as the moose drew to within 20 yards. “Of course moose have poor eyesight, and with your arms flailing miserably in the air like that, it probably thinks you are a bull moose. By the way, what’s that smell?”  I asked.

“Bob told me to use this new bear repellant. It’s called Bears-Get-Off and it supposed to work by simulating the odor of a bull moose in rut. Bob said it’s common knowledge that bear are afraid of moose,” Tracker explained. Note to self: I need to have a little talk with Bob.

“Look, it’s leaving,” squealed Tracker as the cow vectored and swam away from us.

“Tracker, maybe you’d like to sit down? You know, just until you get some of your color back,” I offered.

A sharp eye or even two can keep a seasoned outdoorsman out of trouble I always say. But the real art of avoiding trouble is in delivering the proper caution when one’s good eye detects trouble. “Bull moose dead-ahead! Easy now Tracker. Just because that bull has a rack that makes a beaver dam look like a pile of match sticks, and is swimming directly towards us, doesn’t necessarily mean it intends to kill.”

It only took a couple of minutes to revive Tracker after the original fainting spell, but by then the bull made our shoreline just 20 yards away. I believed it to be only coincidence that it charged, snapping small pine trees like twigs. But concerned for Tracker’s mental health, I felt we should err on the side of safety. “Perhaps we should deploy the boats and swim out of here,” I delivered in a calming fashion. (Tracker later claimed I said something about “everyman for himself”. But I have since reconciled that misinterpretation to Tracker’s fragile mental state at the time.)

I complemented Tracker on his ability to dive into the water without the boat and yet manage to fly back out of the water and into the boat in one fluid motion. The moose followed into the Pond.

As we paddled for our lives, Tracker began an elaborate series of wild wolf calls. (I really wasn’t sure what kind of sound they were at the time,  but later Tracker told me that they were wolf calls; reasoning of course, moose are afraid of wolves and that I shouldn’t confuse the sounds he made with anything like pathetic human shrieks.)

“Here’s a plan,” I injected, as the bull gained on us and I overtook Tracker. “Why don’t you let the moose have its way with you while I paddle out of here and get help?” Having keenly reasoned we were witnessing bull moose rutting behavior, this seemed quite logical to me. 

“Sure, leave your best friend to die alone,” objected Tracker. (What would happen, I thought, if by some remote chance, we should survive the attack? Tracker would tell everyone that I abandoned him. They may even believe him and no one would ever want to go fishing with me – a fate worse than death itself, I reasoned, and turned back.)

The moose was clearly alarmed by my brave and aggressive move to save Tracker. Within a few feet of us, the bull vectored and swam away. “Take hold of my rope,” I instructed. “By the way, a truly prepared belly boater always carries a spare rope. Nylon is the best type but you could use twine or something too. You’ve probably noticed that contrary to popular belief, no matter how much water gets into your waders you do NOT sink to the bottom.  A seasoned  belly boater knows this and does not panic. Perhaps you would like to call it a day?”

I towed Tracker back to the landing. He was very heavy once on land.  As he resumed respiratory and other bodily functions, out came the last words he spoke to me that day: “For sale – one belly boat”! 

Tracker can be quite a funny guy from time to time.

“We’re finished with the project and able to demonstrate quite clearly one of the most significant contributions to the Science of Fishing in the 20th century,” I answered, in a reassuring yet understated sort of way. 

Mr. O’Beeker spent most of his life on the Brooks Range in Alaska as a trapper and hunter. Marriage and a new teaching certificate forced him to move to Northern Wisconsin just two weeks before the start of our seventh grade science class. It took some time for him to become acclimated to his tame surroundings. His wife, we were told, exhibited great patience as he learned to eat and bathe indoors. Surprisingly, he adjusted rather rapidly to trapping the only game around his new home – muskrat.

As science teachers go, Mr. O’Beeker was one of the best. Tracker John and I typically received nearly passing grades and actually excelled in the Wildlife and Biology portion of his curriculum. In fact, he considered us his very best students. We achieved this ranking during one of the first classes as he demonstrated the proper techniques for skinning, stretching and curing a muskrat pelt. It was later determined that most of the random fainting and sickness experienced by the other students were largely due to their inexperience with such things and also having never smelled a bloated muskrat. O’Beeker was most grateful for our glowing testimonials during his indictment by the School Board.

“Looks pretty good boys, what’s it supposed to do again, I mean, incase anyone asks?” We couldn’t understand why O’Beeker was so painfully slow in grasping the obvious and imminent scientific contribution awaiting mankind. 

The theory was quite straightforward. Fish communicate with each other, often relaying messages to their brethren that fisherman were upon them and to avoid biting the hooks and such. All we needed was to record their fishy commands and break the fish language code. We hypothesized that this would be very useful in determining things like when and where to fish, if the fish were big, small, hungry, and such. Afterwards, we could sell our invention to a well known outfit like Zebco Corporation and make a great deal of money. We might even be able to skip the whole middle school thing.

The experiment was fairly simple and required mainly an aquarium with a trout, some wire, a microphone, an amplifier and an oscilloscope. We had nearly everything except the oscilloscope. Mr. O’Beeker was surprisingly eager to lend it to us from the school’s science locker. We were merely instructed to return it “in one piece”, noting he made no lofty demand for it to be returned in working condition.

“Okay Tracker, we are going to need plenty of power for the audio amplifier.” With a nod of self-assured affirmation from Tracker, we were “okay-to-go”.

“Tracker, you just hold the microphone in the water while I plug the amplifier cord into the electric socket. According to our theory, we should be able to see the sound waves on the oscilloscope”, I explained. “Miss Keaster, if you would be so kind as to adjust the amplifier knob? Ready? Here we go!”

Not even NASA got the first unmanned space flight off the ground on the first attempt. Setbacks should be anticipated in all great experiments. It was quite a surprise to learn that the microphone wasn’t waterproof. Equally unpredictable was the fact that it took the paramedics nearly fifteen minutes to arrive. If it hadn’t been for O’Beeker’s mouth-to-mouth training, Old Miss Keaster may have suffered even more brain stem damage than resulted from the initial electrocution. For reasons unknown, O’Beeker was quite upset.

Tracker still feels that with a few adjustments, more competent supervision and a little better insulation, the fish would have survived.

“Now, members of dis goot church, vee must vork to get dee children into our congregation. Vee must find a vay to engage our yute so as to instill zee goot Lutheran vays in our young people. I have an idea. Vee must start a Boy Scout troop!”  announced Pastor Johansson that Sunday morning in September.

With that proclamation began the most historic recruiting effort undertaken since World War II. The only problem was that the elderly members needed to reach out beyond the congregation since all of their children were long since grown. So. they resorted to all manner of creative advertising: grocery store bulletin boards, rummage sale signs, wanted posters. Brilliantly, they even reached out to Junior High School guidance counselors for recruitments.

“Okay Tracker, let me do the talking when we get to the office. I’ll simply explain that the gas was already “turned on” in the science lab and given the inherently safe school surroundings, we could not have been expected to know the lab was a dangerous place to use open flame devices,” I cautioned to Tracker as we were marched by Mr. O’Beeker to the guidance office. Tracker and I are still impressed with the power of a natural gas explosion. Equally impressive was O’Beeker’s ability to use a fire extinguisher with one hand while maintaining a strangle hold with the other.

“You know what you two boys need? You need good morals. You need to learn the difference between right and wrong, good and evil, kind and unkind…” droned Mr. Strateman, the middle-age guidance counselor with chronic high blood pressure. I want you to go to this meeting at the Lutheran Church of the Good Life on Monday night. You will become Boy Scouts. Now get out and don’t come back!” Tracker and I liked Mr. Strateman and admired his knack for getting his point across without ever using two syllable words.

“Welcome to the first meeting of Troop 132. My name is Oren Skarr, I am your Scoutmaster. You may call me Oren. This is Mister Succowitzski. He will now lead us in a little prayer followed by the Boy Scout Pledge.” All twelve of us, recruited in similar fashion from throughout the city, stood at what we considered attention as Mister Succowitzski prayed and we learned the Boy Scout Pledge.

“You will call me Succo and you will listen to me. When I tell you to do something, you will do it. Do you understand?” It was obvious that Succo, a high school senior for three years running, was the drill sergeant in the outfit. We later learned Succo was avoiding the Vietnam War draft by claiming to be a Boy Scout Counselor.  However, Succo and Oren were the only ones in uniform and we were impressed with the various colorful emblems, kerchiefs and such. Tracker wanted to go home right up to the part where Oren explained we were going to prepare for our first camping exercise scheduled the next weekend at a place called Wolf Isle. 

“Each of you will need a sleeping bag, eating utensils, flashlight and a change of clothes. You will be supplied with food and a tent. Further, each of you will receive a Boy Scout Handbook which you will study in its entirety by this weekend. This is a Wilderness Camping Experience so we will minimize the use of modern tools and creature comforts. We’ll be roughing it, boys. By the way, bring a fishing pole because Wolf Isle has a pond nearby,” explained Oren.

We were excited.

The eight mile march to Wolf Isle began at the church Friday at 5 PM. My little brother Bucky bothered Tracker and I until we promised to recruit him and bring him with us to camp. Oren was extremely pleased with our recruitment effort and honored us before the march by naming the three of us as the first squad of Troop 132. We were to be called “The Woodchuck Squad”. He explained good names like “Eagle”, “North Star”, etc., were reserved for more befitting squads. Further, I was nominated by Oren as the Squad Leader. Tracker and Bucky took to the news in a positive fashion frequently saluting with hand gestures unfamiliar to me.

“We will now march as you recite the Troop 132 Official Boy Scout Marching Chant. Ready? Here we go,” announced Succo. 

• We are stupid yes we are  (we are stupid yes we are) 
• Succo leads us very far  (Succo leads us very far) 
• We leave home as little kids   (we leave home as little kids)  
• And return with blisters big   (and return with blisters big)

That Succo was a real joker. But obedience was mandatory. For example, Tracker didn’t like the Boy Scout Marching Chant at first but Succo had Big John Larson, a portly 200 pound eighth grader sit on Tracker for five minutes as punishment. Tracker grew to like the chant. Big John was grateful for the opportunity to rest a while and never really noticed the little bump upon which he sat made screaming noises. Oren would occasionally interrupt the punishment and explain to Succo that he would need to leverage our obedience by more psychological means. The troops somewhat silently agreed amongst ourselves that we too would use more psychological means to impress Succo, if we made it through the Death March.

“A knowledgeable Boy Scout would depend upon his compass before he led the troops astray,” I casually mentioned to Succo about 10 PM after realizing we should have arrived at Wolf Isle camp two hours earlier. Some may have considered my remark risky because of Succo’s intolerance for even the slightest criticism, but I was confident in exercising my newly acquired leadership skills and the troops felt closer to me for it. The unusual salutes continued by Bucky and Tracker. Others joined in. I made a mental note to reread the chapter on “Hand Signals” in the Boy Scout Handbook.

Near midnight, we made camp. Tents were set expertly using very creative means to secure them. Oren made no mention of bringing rope and took responsibility like a true leader. “You boys continue to make camp. Succo has our wall tent setup and we need our rest. Don’t let the sound of our Coleman heater bother you. By the way, doesn’t our new lantern shine brightly compared to your flashlights? Mister Succo, I believe our hot cocoa is coming to a boil on our gas cook stove so we’ll see you boys in the morning.”

As Tracker, Bucky and I climbed into our nearly dry sleeping bags and listened to the gentle rain fall upon our canvas pup tent, we made plans to strike out for the Pond at daybreak. Visions of trout danced in our heads.

“Well, it isn’t exactly a Pond, so to speak, but more like a holding pond actually,” advised Succo. “Legend has it that if you fall in, you will die. Good luck boys. If you don’t come back, your gear is mine.”

A squad of inexperienced Scouts may have crumbled under the advise from Succo about fishing Deadman’s Pond. However, I explained to the troops this was simply a juvenile maneuver designed to distract us from fishing what must be a terrific fishing hole. 

Tracker John lead us quite expertly to Deadman’s Pond. Actually, it was rather easy because we were downwind from the Pond which made it easy to navigate. I explained to the troops that an accomplished fisherman knows that often times good trout water smells like a sewage treatment plant. The troops seemed skeptical but followed my lead, saluting vigorously all the way.

Bucky was the first to make it to Deadman’s Pond. “Look, there’s a sign! What does it say?” asked Bucky, challenged in the reading department but making good progress since acquiring new glasses. With his new spectacles, Bucky could see the craters on the moon and the rings of Saturn on a good night. Bucky was good to have in the squad because we often used his glasses to start campfires on a sunny day, discovering they worked almost as well as matches.

No Trespassing – Paper Sludge Holding Facility – Wisconsin Tissue and Cheese Company

“It’s amazing what grown-ups will do to keep kids away from their fishing spots. Tracker, just get your wire-cutters out and we’ll be through the razor-wire fence in no time, ” I instructed.

We had no problem finding grubs to use as bait. They were all over the ground and we quickly tied a few onto our hooks and proceeded to cast from shore. “Wow, the fish must be hungry, my hooks keep disappearing,” exclaimed Tracker. “Hey guys, I got one!”

Tracker fought the trophy for nearly an hour. It was big. We were unable to identify the exact species, but we were able to convince Bucky that some species of fish have legs and two heads.

With trophy in hand, we decided to head back to camp before Succo claimed our gear as his. Tracker had suggested that we could cook the trophy for Succo and Oren as a gesture of goodwill and respect for our leaders. We were excited about the opportunity to try Tracker’s new peel and eat recipe.

It was a long 8-mile hike back to church after serving dinner to our leaders. We got a slow start due the frequent requirement to reference the Boy Scout Handbook chapter on “First Aid”. The Woodchuck Squad felt honored to be able to simultaneously demonstrate direct pressure, artificial respiration and the Heimlich maneuver on Oren and Succo. Oren and Succo were quite heavy to haul back to church, but due largely to the Tracker’s clever use of hand-weaved grapevines, we were able to drag them with little problem. The troops stopped from time to time to loosen the tow ropes so as to not deprive our leaders of air and to minimize further brain damage.

Pastor Larson Johansson was overjoyed to see us. Tears seemed to fill his eyes as he jumped up and down. “You know vhat you boys need? You need goot morels. You need to learn zee difference – a betveen right und vrong, goot and evill, kind und unkind. Bork bork bork…”

We were quite familiar with the rest of the sermon.