Word around the water cooler here at the magazine is that this addition has the theme of travel and games? I racked my brain and tried to think of something to do with my dad involving travel and games. Multiple great memories came to me.
There is a ton of utility in having had a dad like mine. We did a lot of things together. Most were fun. All were memorable. Not because we went to far off exotic lands or historically significant destinations, we didn’t. They were memorable because of who was there and what happened and often it was just the two of us.
We had a cabin in Northern Minnesota. We still have it but when I was twelve my dad introduced me to hunting. He hunted, but it was a past time or hobby that facilitated what men like to do, hang out. That would change. We hung out for sure but we hunted. He probably had a dream son but in his dream it stopped at the outdoors being a past time of fun and enjoying nature. Turning a boy into a man. My version of his dream was non stop hunting. In non hunter terms it was similar to the difference between the thoughts of having a dog and the reality of having a dog. The thoughts of having a a dog are of a cute puppy and a faithful animal sitting by your side as you pet its head in peace and serenity by the fireplace. The dog delivers your slippers when needed and then lays down to keep you company. In reality, the dog has some pretty okay qualities but he always wants to go out when you don’t want to, he ruins your slippers, and always wants attention.
Back to travel and games…Every Friday, in the Fall my dad and I hit the road for the cabin at noon. Mom wrote a perfect penmanship cursive note for me to bring to school and I’d get let out early. I was a solid student that came in second a few times at spelling and geography bees so I earned early release. One time a teacher commented on my Friday “Summer Hours” and my mom, Joyce, handled it like great moms do. I don’t question how you teach…you get the rest. Back to dad…
We’d hit the road and head North. Usually just dad and I. It was 47 years ago and it’s one of those memories that seems like yesterday. I can feel the excitement and anticipation as I write this today. When you do something with your kid that sticks with him, so positively, for almost 50 years you nailed parenting.
I learned a lot about hunting over those years. Not hard when you start at 12 and know nothing but I’m not sure there was one thing I did learn that wasn’t based on screwing up the first time or two. Well, I take that back. Gun safety. My dad had one zero tolerance category and that was it. It started with toy guns when I was little and by 12 I was an expert. Wisdom of my father for sure. But, I think back to anything I do well now and it’s because I sucked at it and figured it out by repeated mistakes and the attached disappointment if not devastation. The day it “clicks” is very rewarding and I’m guessing better than if you began with success.
Since this isn’t a hunting article I will just say my dad and I had some success hunting. I have the photos. What’s funny is that I don’t have photos of the best things I remember. The “camp” cooking of Spam sandwiches, chili, Jello pudding pie, Grouse stew. The dog laying in front of the fire at the end of a long day. The wind up alarm clock ticking at my bedside as I stared at it waiting for it to go off at 5am.
We had a special place we spent a lot of time at in our duck hunting adventures. We would “jump shoot” ducks using a canoe and this spot was at the end of where we paddled to and we’d turn around and paddle back. It was a couple miles from the cabin and it was downstream so we’d take a break at what my dad called “The Resting Spot”. Nobody ever questioned the name because my dad was an in charge kinda guy and also, if naming a place on Earth was some kind of Rorschach Test this name defined my dad. It’s a spot. We rested. “The Resting Spot”.
The Spot was great. He’d fall asleep usually. I’d lay there and think. It was usually Sundays and it was a bummer we had to go home. The melancholy feeling we all get when leaving someplace we love would creep in. After about 45 minutes we’d get back in the canoe and head back to the cabin. We never went past the resting spot until one year when we really hit the duck jackpot and needed one more duck for our limit. (I was 18 now so officially no longer a child). We forged ahead. It was the tail end of October and pretty cold but Sunny. Maybe 40 degrees but it was windy so that negated the sun. We ran into a small beaver dam and just went over it. The river then got really wide and there wasn’t much cover for ducks to feel safe in. It started to make sense why we never went this far. We were getting close to Leech Lake and the open water not blocking the wind started making things difficult. We had entered the territory of learning by screwing up. I usually did that alone but this time I had a partner. I don’t think we had discussed turning around yet but I’m pretty sure we were about to and a flock of Bluebills took off in front of us and once air born turned downwind and headed right back at us. They were really moving and on my right. I shoot right handed so my first miss was in front of us more than to the right of the canoe. The second miss was about even with the canoe. My dad said “leadddd em” and I turned past ninety degrees right and pulled the trigger and one duck folded and before the duck hit the water my dad and I hit the water. Seemed we both compensated for my movements shooting in the same direction and physics took over. I went over backward into the river and I think my dad entered more gracefully but probably not a ton of style.
I took in a gasp of water and had some issues. He completely pulled dad moves and calmed me down pretty fast. I said I lost my gun and he said “leave it”. I felt the gun under my foot in the weeds and dove down and got it. He was pissed but now it was time to get to shore about 100 yards away. I was 18, like I said, so he was 58 and I didn’t think in very good shape, in a workout kinda way. The man single handily got us to shore. I clearly remember feeling like I was 12 as he pushed and swam and heaved and pulled us onto the muddy bog. That gross, wet, mud felt so good. It was amazingly warm was what I remember. We righted “the ship” and got back in and started paddling. Going back over the beaver house was harder this time and eventually I was freezing up. He hatched a plan and we beached the canoe and found a road and walked to a nearby store. He was behaving like nothing happened and I think I had hypothermia. The people at the store were so nice. It happens in a town of 21 people. The owner gave us a ride back to the cabin after getting us into dry clothes.
Outdoor adventures are always the best when you’re “making memories”. We certainly did that day and we also learned by screwing up but only once this time. We never went past “The Resting Spot” again and I didn’t mention before that it was all my idea to forge ahead. He never mentioned that to me either. He wasn’t that kind of guy.
I really think he saved my life that day but he never even remotely said that. He’d recall it by saying “that was the day Kris and I went Tippy Canoe”. He totally minimized what happened, didn’t blame me at all, and never took a lick of credit for getting us to shore.
I haven’t been back to “The Resting Spot” for quite a few years but I think some day in October I will swing by and grab a handful of dirt and put it in a jar just to have nearby to remind me of some things he taught me in our travels and games.
