In September 1969, Dick and I
began our year on Tucker Lake.
Our cabin had neither road
access nor amenities. This is
one of many stories about our
lives during that special year.
I barely noticed the straggly alder branch that grabbed my hat as I pushed the canoe away from the muddy edge of the portage and hopped in. We were returning from our weekly mail trip to the Gunflint Trail where we’d also visited neighbors. I was thinking about food. Visions of crisp golden herring fillets filled my mind. The neighbors had given us a packet of delicious fish. In half an hour I would be pan-frying the lovely herring piece, and I could almost taste them. I was tired of canned meat and dried soups. We were one month into our wilderness experience and enjoying the adventure—except for one thing—food. No refrigeration meant a very limited diet. The October nights were cold but the days too warm for unrefrigerated perishables, so fresh meat and milk were out of the question. We were craving something other than canned meat and dried soups. As the canoe moved across the water, I watched the familiar rocks and trees of the shoreline and thought about the generosity of our neighbors who had given us a neatly wrapped packet of fresh herring. What joy to have fresh food. Occasionally Dick shot a partridge and we feasted on its succulent white meat, and sometimes, we’d catch a walleye or two but mostly our meals were bland and tasteless canned stuff. Soon we landed at the log that functioned as our dock. I hopped out. “Go fry the herring,” Dick suggested. “I’ll take care of everything else.”
So, he’d been drooling over the thought of fresh fish too. I loped up to the cabin where I slung off my backpack and reached inside for the white paper packet of fresh fish.
It wasn’t there. I dug deeper into the pack. Nothing. A red bandana scarf fell to the floor as I frantically searched. My billfold flew through the air. No herring fillets. Not a sign of the fish package. “Dick,” I called down to the lakeshore.
He looked up from the canoe. “Is there a white package in the canoe?” Dick looked in the boat bottom; he searched the path from lake to cabin. We rummaged through our coat pockets. No herring. We searched through everything again. The canoe… the backpack…my jacket pocket…Dick’s jacket pocket. The herring fillets weren’t with us. I had lost them. “What’s the alternative meal plan?” Dick looked glum. “Dried beef on bread,” I answered morosely. After a very silent meal, we decided to cheer up with an action plan. Maybe there was some hope. If the night was cold enough, and no animals had found the fillets, we might be able to retrace our steps and find them. I woke the next morning to find the ground quite frosty. With an optimistic look in his eyes, Dick canoed back to the portage. I stayed at the cabin. He found nothing so canoed all the way out and walked to our car parked near Little Iron Lake. And there they were… a miracle. (That was our interpretation.) The white paper packet of fillets lay on the ground, under my car door, where it had dropped from the Duluth Pack. Luckily, no bear had found them. And although mice had chewed at the paper, the fillets were intact. A jubilant Dick burst through the cabin door and held the prize high. I unwrapped the package, rolled the fillets in flour and fried them to a crisp. We ate them immediately and called it brunch. I have never eaten better herring.
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