Along the border of the United States and Canada, between Minnesota and Ontario, are adjacent national parks, the American Superior National Forest, the Canadian La Verendrye and Quetico Provincial Park. Known collectively as The Boundary Waters, the national parks offer some of the most pristine wilderness available to fishermen and naturalists. The land isn’t really land as much as it is solid rock. What isn’t rock is water. What isn’t water is trees, and what isn’t trees is rock.

Forty years ago, The Old Man, The Rocket Scientist, a favorite uncle and a favorite cousin, and Yours Truly, of course, went into the Quetico on a fishing expedition. Part of it was to fish for, well, fish but part of it was to go fishing for some of the memories of The Old Man.

Today, the only way you can go into the area is via canoe - I suppose you could swim but the water is awfully cold. When we went in forty years ago, you could go in by boat and you could use small outboard motors. The rule was that you had to pack out whatever you packed in, and that meant canned food and supplies. That is no longer true - well that pack in/pack out rule is still there and strictly enforced, but we could have canned foods. You can’t, as cans were banned a long time ago. So were boats, and so were outboard motors, but that ban was not in effect in 1968.

The five of us drove the hours and hours it took to get to Ely, Minnesota, one of the reportedly six places in the United States named “Ely.” (We’ve been to three of ‘em. And you have to want to go to Ely, Anyplace, because none of them are on the way to anywhere regular travelers go to.) With the help of the outfitter, a man named Bob Cary that seemed to have some sort of connection to The Old Man, we prepared to journey into the wilderness. We packed our stuff into two aluminum boats, fired up the old 5 horse Evinrudes and set out for adventure. Our target was called Basswood Lake. (As James Thurber used to say, “You could look it up.”) For some reason, Bob Cary was on his way to the ranger station that day and was sort-of traveling with us, but not really.

Earlier in the 20th Century, the waters of far northern Minnesota were already a haven for fishermen and becoming a battleground between the forces that would just as soon man be wiped from the face of the earth so wilderness could go back to wilderness and those who think every tree should be cut down and made into lumber. It’s taken the conservationists decades to do it but the wilderness area is wilderness and difficult to get into. A treaty was signed between Canada and the United States, setting aside the 1.1 million acres of preserve in Minnesota and 4,750 square kilometers on the Canadian side. (That’s about 1,834 square miles, or about 1.2 million acres.)

Several resorts popped up around the huge Basswood Lake and anglers came from all over to sample the cold, clear waters that were loaded with game fish of many different species. The roads in the area were all closed in order to discourage logging, so the only way in and out for the resorts was by boating and portaging or by float plane.

Smallmouth bass, fingerlings from Wisconsin, were stocked in Basswood lake about that time. My great-uncle, Dwight Newberry, was The Old Man’s mother’s brother. He owned one of those resorts on Basswood Lake. It was a place of legend, and both The Old Man and his Old Man used to travel to Dwight’s resort. Some members of the family have photos of them holding up stringers full of huge fish.

In 1948, the federal government issued a ban on private property and prohibited private residents. They wanted everyone out by 1974. The act condemned all the private property, provided funds to purchase the lands and cleared out all the resort owners, squatters and residents. All the structures were burned to the ground and allowed to revert to nature. (There is a legend that someone, who lived on a houseboat, managed to evade the eviction order for many, many years.) Dwight sold his land to the Feds and bought a farm in Kosciusko County, Indiana, not that far from the family homestead in Blackford County.

For our trip, we headed for Basswood Lake, because even twenty-five years later, The Old Man was pretty sure he could find his favorite old fishing holes on the Canadian side of Basswood Lake.

In 1967, there had been a dam failure that lowered one of the approach lakes. It was a significant drop between the lakes, probably three feet but it was only about 10 yards, over rocks. The outfitters in Ely had pooled resources and built a mechanical portage between the two lakes. It was a center track from a boat trailer, with rollers, and a hand-cranked winch. You would approach the portage and pull your boat or canoe up on to the track. The idea was to hook on the winch, pull your rig up the 12″ or so to the top of the portage, then reverse the winch and lower your rig the four feet to the lower lake. Simple, and it didn’t take a brain surgeon to figure it out, especially if your read the sign the outfitters had placed there.

In line, just ahead of us, were three guys who never earned their Tenderfoot badge in Scouts. At the peak of the portage, instead of using the winch to lower their canoe into the lower lake, they decided to climb in and ride the rollers down like a flume ride at Great America. It looked like as dumb an idea as you think it was.

The ride was a great deal of fun for them, at least, for the three of four seconds it took for the canoe to hit the water. It floated about five feet from the portage before it rolled over and capsized, sending a week’s worth of provisions, fishing gear, camping equipment and some very expensive camera equipment right to the bottom of the lake.

After we finished portaging our two rigs, at least a half an hour later, one of them was still diving in that ice cold water, trying to recover their gear. We continued north and I have no idea whatever happened to them.

Two lakes later, we portaged over the longest land mass that separated us from the approach to Basswood Lake. A motorized toll portage was operated there, I have no idea if it was operated by the US Park Service or if it was private. It was comprised of a circa WWII jeep and a boat trailer that was either floated up on a raft or driven up over the ice. For a few bucks, a guy would load your boat or canoe on the trailer and haul it across the portage, then put everything back into the water. During the portage, Bob Cary asked the man if the fishing was any good.

“Yup.”

“Where they getting ‘em?”

“Water.”

“What are they getting ‘em on?”

“Hooks.”

“What are they using for bait?”

“Worms.”

There was a US ranger station at the north end of the portage, where they made sure we had valid Minnesota fishing licenses, even though we had no intention of wetting a line on the US side of the lake. “The boundary isn’t a dotted line floating on the top of the lake like it shows on the map,” The Old Man pointed out. “How the hell would we know if we’re fishing in Minnesota or not?” He chuckled and asked, “How will you know if we’re fishing on the Minnesota side?”

The ranger grinned and said, “We’ll know. Besides, we’ll check the passports of the fish you catch.”

When we were back underway, we didn’t go far - right across the channel to the Ontario ranger station, where we declared our belongings and intentions. We purchased official camping permits and fishing licenses and with that, we were off for a place known as Cigar Island. It is a long, narrow island that resembles a, well, with apologies to Sigmund Freud, sometimes and island shaped like a cigar is just an island shaped like a cigar.

The Old Man had told us how beautiful it is at night, and during a storm. He was right, the first night was incredible, not a cloud in the sky and one of the few times in my life that I’ve been able to see The Milky Way. The call of the loon echoes forever because with all the rock and water, there is little to stop it. Contrary to urban myth, a duck quack also echoes.

A thunderstorm is something to behold up there, that’s what The Old Man also told us. As if on cue one night, a storm came through. The lightning is intensely bright, but better is the thunder. With nothing there but water and rock, the thunder just rolls, and rolls, and rolls. It rolls toward you, rolls over you, and it goes on forever until it just gets too far away to be heard anymore.

The fishing was unbelievable, the rocks were unbelievable, the water was unbelievable and the lessons of wildlife, taught by The Old Man, were unbelievable.

Our camp was watched closely by two seagulls that we named Harvey and Griselda. There was a mesh pen that someone had built near the beach, where we were able to keep fish alive in the lake. Harvey and Griselda kept trying to get into the pen, without success, but they did always get to clean up after our fish cleaning chores.

Our camp was also closely watched by a crow that sat in the top of a tall tree. He cawed softly, every 15 seconds. You could set your watch by him. The Old Man had studied crow society, and he informed us that the crow was the sentry. As we finished a meal and began to clean up, the caws speeded up to about 10 seconds and got louder as we came closer to leaving. As we climbed into our boats, before we even shoved off, the sentry was on his way to the mainland, flying as fast as he could. Before we started the engines, he was back with all his friends, swooping down on the camp to scarf up whatever we had left behind.

I’ll spare you the fish stories, but I will tell you that we packed out a lot of the provisions we packed in. Fresh walleye is good eatin’. The water is so clear that we saw a fishing rod and reel in about 20 feet of water. We were able to hook it and bring it up. While it wasn’t a great find (it was a cheap Zebco set) the fact that we could even see it at that depth was incredible.

And The Old Man was right - even after more than twenty-five years and with no landmarks to follow, we found Dwight’s old resort. Well, we found the foundation of it, anyway. Long ago burned to the ground, all that remained was stone, concrete, blocks and mortar. The site had pretty well returned to nature, and without The Old Man, we never would have found the site.

It was a great week in the Quetico, we caught lots of fish. We ate lots of fish. We saw lots of nature, got to know Harvey and Griselda, and learned more about crows in a few days than most people learn in a lifetime. We also learned a lot from The Old Man, and about The Old Man.

Going into it, we were all pretty sure it was a trip of a lifetime and for most people, it would be. The next year, The Old Man would undergo a new type of surgery, called open heart. The Rocket Scientist would soon be off to Korea in the employ of his Uncle Sam. Your’s Truly would enter college and The Quetico would become a fond memory of a place we went but darn, wouldn’t it be nice to go back someday?

So we did go back, but that’s a story for another day. For now, it’s fun to bask in the memory of a grand trip for five guys all those forty years ago. It was truly a trip of a lifetime and although it’s one that can never be repeated, it’s one that will never be forgotten.