My dad and I came up north (way north of 8) to build a cabin in the middle of the last century. He had a neat station wagon that had a tail light that swiveled when you opened the tailgate. It always pointed straight back. It was a mechanical marvel to me. A usual car to start driving lessons on when you are around 10 or so. Three on the tree and the high/low headlight switch was pushed with the toe of your left foot. Dad had wise advice when to dim the headlights: “Just when the oncoming car’s lights can be seen as two lights, then switch them to low” These days with bright halogen headlights I switch earlier and when ever I am behind someone.

Our cabin was east of Danbury on Gull Lake. I handed tools up to dad as the roof rafters formed up. The end of the ridge pole was cut off and the chunk fell right on my head. I yelled up “I’m OK” and the work continued. It was a pretty small piece and surprising when it arrived.

It was exciting to be right there when the dream cabin was actually forming up. Dad was a city fireman and used to ladders. He built cabinets on his off times in our basement. Grandpa was a fireman too but he was too old and cranky to come up and help. Besides, Gramp’s didn’t like to fish like his son in law and grandson did.

There was one other family on the lake and they owned a small resort next door. Since it was my first time ‘up north’, this seemed a good place to be. At that time, a small green flat bottom boat was at the dock and it was mine to use morning and night. I was not allowed to row out beyond sight of the resort where the lily pads were waiting for me. A fly rod with floating line and a small popper was my choice of tools to entrance the fish just under the pads.

It was easy pickings and the sound of the swirl and the tug are still vivid in my memory. A dozen bluegills and paper mouths (crappies) in the bottom of the boat and it was time to row back in to the dock. Sometimes I put them on a stringer but those pesky and poky fins were a challenge when the fish were several pounds and my hands not quite big enough to pull the fins back. The poppers were too big for the fish to swallow and that helped get them off the hook.

Dad would scale and gut and lunch was served with the resort owners sharing in the bounty. Every decent day, morning and night was my job to row out and harvest white fleshed fish to be fried in butter. There was a camper that myself and my sister stayed in while the two men went into town at night and they stayed pretty late.

Sis told me later in life that she seduced me when we were alone. I am pretty foggy about that but it would explain my sisters reticence for friendship when we were older and with our children.

We were still in bed when the time to row out and fish so we waited until someone awoke. I was a good swimmer, but the rule was, don’t go out where I can’t see you. Dad’s eyes were closed for a while on those mornings. The fishing was still very good in spite of the late start. After all, the two families were the only residents on Gull lake. The lake shore is filled with cabins now. The fish population was diminished in an equal ratio. F + xC = -F (or fish plus more cabins equals less fish)

It was grand and now and then, just myself and then Dad would get the motor running and troll for bass on the link between Gull and Minerva. We thought they tasted pretty good too but it seemed a lot of effort to get them.

So we got the ‘big’ V hull boat loaded up with all the accoutrements. he always used artificial jigs and spoons, so no bait was needed. The red Daredevil was a favorite It was always exciting to motor up the channel between Gull and Minerva. That old Evinrude just putting along . There was no one around there. No other cabins, no other boats seen. After trolling for a while the motor was shut off and the waves it made were heard on the banks. Ten years later, it was big Navy fleet ships that made splashing noises too. Waves slapping the hull from the battle fleet and sometimes sounds from nearby shores were similar. I would be back in that small channel just like that.

Sounds do that for me. They are music that moves me as a masterpiece of any art can. The movie August Rush lines it out. Try a concerto directed by Jacob Collier in an Orchestra hall.

Wind and waves with shaking trees. Add the mix gas smoke and the vibration of the motor and you have orchestral surround sound. A loon now and then to add the high notes.

I love the sounds. Perfect. Dad’s smiles to remember when things got tough later on. In those early years, I thought a lot about those things, wondered where the fish came from and why it was so good to catch and eat them. I wondered why Dad smiled when they were together. Dad didn’t smile much back in the cities. I wonder about a lot of things as most of us do. It gets stronger when Wonder is manifested in our lives. The symphonies kettle drums and strong brass awaken us and our pulse matches the score.

Over five decades later I got some answers to some questions from Jesus, my friend who created me and all things. We do not think about the thoughts of young children and their questions of what and why. We are very complex and our thoughts on life itself are formed and dreamed about early in our lives. Children are wax recordings of life and can melt away if we don’t listen to those concertos when we think we are grown. I look for the wonder I had with my mouth smiling and my eyes staring at beauty while the music was all there. It’s not gone, the cacophony of life masks the concert.

It became clear why Dad wanted his ashes put in a trout stream, way up north. It was fishing that bonded me and my Father, and it was thoughts of fishing at the very end. After all, Jesus had a lot to say to his close friends about fishing. He still does.

It’s pretty good. Norm Peterson /Jack Gator