The Long Way Around

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After our humbling encounter at French Portage Narrows, we proceeded with considerably more humility through Devils Elbow — taking our time, reading the water, trusting nothing. It is remarkable how quickly overconfidence can be replaced by a very healthy respect for what a lake can throw at you.

And then, quietly and without fanfare, we entered the northern end of the Tug Channel.

For those who have been following along, you may recognize this as the very exit point we never reached the day before — the other side of the narrows we wisely declined to attempt. We had arrived at our destination the long way around, through an extra day of navigation and one very instructive lesson in knowing your limits. Bearcruzer, our Ranger Tug R25, slipped into the channel as if she belonged there, which of course she did. We exhaled. We may have smiled. We were back.

The tension of the morning dissolved quickly as we made our way south, and nothing dissolves tension faster than the sight of two 1930s Pontiacs sitting along the shoreline of Thomas Island, suicide doors and all, resting right where someone left them decades ago like automotive relics in an open-air museum.

We slowed down and stared.

There is something about old cars in unexpected places that stops you cold, and these were extraordinary — elegant and improbable, sitting at the water’s edge as though they’d simply decided this was far enough. Which, in a way, they had. The only way to reach these islands in winter is across the ice, and back in the day that meant bundling up, pointing one of these beauties out across the frozen lake, and driving. The thought of it — the cold, the darkness, the faith required to trust ice to a car full of people and supplies — was enough to make us feel quietly inadequate in our heated cabin with our GPS and our French-press coffee. These northerners and their descendants are a different breed entirely. Hardy doesn’t begin to cover it.

We pressed on as the sky began to change. Storm clouds gathered along the horizon, and the winds picked up just enough to remind us who was in charge, so we dropped anchor at the entrance to Painted Rock Channel and loaded into the dinghy for lunch and a look at more pictographs along the rock faces. This was our second encounter with these ancient paintings on this trip — the first in Whitefish Bay, now here — and they lost none of their power in the repetition. If anything, finding them again felt like running into an old acquaintance in an unexpected place. We are beginning to understand that these marks are woven into the fabric of this lake, left by people who knew these waters long before any of us had charts or GPS or Navionics apps to tell us where the shallow bits were.

The cabins along these shores tell their own story of northern ingenuity. They range from weathered old fishing camps to newer builds, scattered across the islands in various states of ambition, and all of them share the same fundamental challenge: getting supplies in when you can’t simply drive to the store. The northerners, we have noticed, have developed their own approach to provisioning priorities.

By late afternoon we found a sheltered cove just below Blueberry Island and dropped anchor for the evening. Mike had barely gotten his line in the water before he had something — a good-sized pike that put up a genuine fight and came close, very close, to joining us for dinner. At the last moment it broke the line and disappeared back into the depths, taking a favorite lure as a souvenir.

Mike watched the water where it had been for a long moment.

“Better luck to the next fisherman who catches him.”

We settled in for a quiet evening below Blueberry Island, the storm having passed and the water gone glassy and still. It was a beautiful night. The wilderness had been generous with us today — Pontiacs and pictographs and a pike who lived to fight another day.

And tomorrow? Tomorrow there is civilization waiting in Nestor Falls. Hopefully a pump-out station and if the universe is feeling truly generous — a laundromat.

Some things, after enough days on the water, are more exciting than any waterfall.

Goodnight, everyone. We’ll see you on the other side of the wash cycle.

How bad could it be?

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Nestor Falls lies just south of us — a mere 20 minutes by car. For Bearcruzer, however, there is no shortcut. A boat our size means the long way around the Aulneau Peninsula, and the long way around it would be.

We topped off our fuel in Sioux Narrows and set out on what would turn out to be one of the more eventful days of the trip. We wove our way through Fire Island Narrows, back through Whitefish Narrows and Long Bay, skirted west past Yellow Girl Point, and along the north shore of the peninsula until we passed Skeet Island, where we turned Bearcruzer south and pointed her toward French Portage Narrows.

Now. In our defense, we had navigated quite a few narrows by this point. Fire Island Narrows. Whitefish Narrows. Barney Narrows. Eagle Passage. We had begun to feel, if we are being honest, perhaps just a little bit capable. Confident. Dare we say it — experienced.

How bad could it be?

It was a beautiful sunny day, the kind that makes everything look more manageable than it is, and a speedboat was heading into the narrows just ahead of us going the same direction. We took this as a good sign. The water sparkled. The sky was blue. We pressed on.

The first hint that this might not be like the other narrows arrived when the speedboat reappeared — coming back the other way. The captain stood tall and saluted us as he passed.

We noted this. We did not, perhaps, note it quite enough.

The second hint came from a more familiar source. An eagle appeared ahead of us, flying low and purposeful — heading in the opposite direction. Away from the narrows. Dad, it seemed, had an opinion about this plan.

We pressed on.

The water began to shallow. The narrows themselves came into view, and what came into view was not encouraging. Large concrete blocks jutted from each bank, leaving an opening of perhaps fifteen to twenty feet between them. Beyond the blocks, the channel narrowed further still, threading between rocks just below the surface on the way out the other side. Mike trimmed the engine up. We looked at the opening. We looked at Bearcruzer. We looked at each other.

We have been enjoying a remarkably stress-free trip up to this point. We have nothing to prove. We are not in a hurry. We have worked too hard and come too far to leave any part of this boat on a rock in French Portage Narrows, however sunny the day or however capable we may have been feeling approximately twenty minutes ago.

The speedboat had turned around. Dad’s eagle had turned around.

We turned Bearcruzer around.

It was, we agreed as we retraced our route, absolutely the right call. Not every narrows is meant for every boat, and wisdom — as it turns out — looks a lot like knowing the difference. We carried on the long way, and eventually found our way to a lovely little anchorage just off the aptly named Tranquil Island, where song sparrows sang in the reeds, and snapping turtles watched us with great solemnity. The evening was calm, the night was calmer, and nobody ran aground.

The next morning I woke early to find an eagle perched above the anchorage, watching over us in the quiet before the day began.

Dad’s eagle. Back again. Patient as ever.

We like to think he was pleased with us — that the lesson he’d tried to pass along at the narrows had landed, that we’d finally taken the hint. There is, after all, no shame in turning around. Sometimes the wisest thing a captain can do is listen — to the speedboat heading back the other way, to the eagle flying in the opposite direction, to the quiet voice of experience that says not today.

Always listen to your elders.

We’re learning, Pops. We’re learning.

Happy Anniversary!

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Some anchorages you find by planning. Others you simply spot on the chart and follow your instincts, and they turn out to be exactly what you needed.

We found just such a place off Yellow Girl Point near Nepetugain Island — a completely sheltered cove that our Navionics GPS had been kind enough to reveal. A truly protected anchorage is one of the quiet joys of cruising life. It doesn’t matter what the wind does or where the weather comes from — inside, everything stays calm. We settled in for the evening in the easy company of a family of Mergansers and the occasional fishing boat cruising through, and let the stillness do its work. It was, as it turned out, exactly the right way to spend the night before our anniversary.

The next morning we had a plan, and it began with a detour. Before pointing ourselves toward civilization and whatever anniversary celebration Sioux Narrows might offer, we slipped through Whitefish Narrows into Whitefish Bay to look for something we’d been told about — pictographs, painted on the rock faces along the water’s edge, left there hundreds of years ago by the indigenous people of this region. The pigments, we learned, were made from Sturgeon — fish that still swim these very waters — pressed into images that have outlasted everything around them.

We found them, and we floated quietly next to them for a while.

There was something unexpectedly moving about floating before these ancient marks on the rock, this far north, on a lake carved by glaciers. What struck us most was how familiar some of the imagery felt — echoes of the petroglyphs and pictographs we know from our own southwest region back home in Colorado. Across thousands of miles and hundreds of years, people had looked at the world around them and felt the same impulse: to leave a mark, to say we were here, and this is what we saw. We lingered for a bit longer.

Eventually the living called us back, and we meandered through Barney Narrows and into the little bay at Sioux Narrows, where we tied off at the town’s government docks for the princely sum of five dollars. Five. We have paid more for a cup of coffee.

Sioux Narrows turned out to be exactly the kind of town you hope to stumble into. The visitors center was cheerfully devoted to the twin religions of the north country — Fishing and Hunting — and outside it I discovered a little library cabinet where I could swap out a book, which felt like a small miracle after weeks on the water. We walked across the wooden bridge we’d just passed under on our way into town, looked back at Bearcruzer sitting contentedly at the dock, and kept exploring.

And then I found the dress.

Boutique Soleil is not the kind of shop you expect to find in a town this size, but there it was — a blue floral dress that seemed to have been waiting specifically for this occasion. I tried it on. It fit perfectly. Mike approved. For an anniversary dinner in a town of a few hundred people on a lake in northern Ontario, it was exactly right, and I felt like myself in the best possible way.

We did a little reprovisioning at Gill’s Trading Post, and then — dressed for the occasion — we made our way to Big John’s Bar & Grill for our anniversary dinner. It was warm and lively and exactly what we needed after weeks of wilderness cooking aboard Bearcruzer. We ate well, we laughed, and we walked back through that quiet little town afterward in the long northern evening light, hand in hand, my captain and I.

It may not be everyone’s idea of a romantic anniversary. No candlelit restaurant with a sommelier, no hotel with a view, no grand gesture. Just a blue dress found by happy accident, a good meal at Big John’s, a five-dollar dock fee, and a stroll back to our boat on a summer evening in Canada.

For us, it was just perfect.

Happy Anniversary to us. Here’s to seventeen years, and to wherever the next seventeen take us — preferably somewhere with good holding and the occasional boutique.

Victory

Off to Witch Bay

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Perhaps we should have known that a place called Witch Bay would have a few tricks up its sleeve.

Mike had been looking forward to this one.

It started innocently enough. Mike had spotted a waterfall on our charts, tucked into a small cove along the shore of Pipestone Peninsula, and that was all the motivation we needed. We wound our way along the peninsula, through Andrew Bay, and dropped anchor with the quiet anticipation of people who have earned a dramatic natural wonder or two. We loaded Sierra and ourselves into the dinghy, and we puttered around the point — and then we searched. And searched.

Someone, it seemed, had tampered with the map.

We found it eventually — a proud one-foot drop, with a modest trickle of water making its way over the rocks and into the lake. We climbed the stair-stepped granite beside it, certain that this was merely the bottom of something grander, that the full magnificent cascade was waiting just above.

It was not. The forest just got thicker.

We have now noticed a pattern developing up here in the north country. The marina that turned out to be a convenience store. The waterfall that turned out to be a trickle. Whether it is the remoteness, the charm of the place, or something more mysterious at work, things are simply described differently up here — and we are learning to recalibrate our expectations accordingly.

But Witch Bay was not finished with us yet.

On the climb back down through the boulders, I spotted something tucked into the cracks of the rock — a small patch of wild strawberries, tiny and sun-warmed, glowing red against the grey granite. They were perfect. Sweet in the way that only something found rather than bought can be sweet, as though they had been left there on purpose, a little gift hidden in the rocks by whoever looks after such things in these northern woods. We ate them on the spot and decided the waterfall was forgiven.

Back aboard Bearcruzer, we traveled on to Witch Bay for the evening — and this time, the spell took a decidedly more magnificent form. As we eased into our anchorage, two swans appeared from nowhere, sweeping in low and slow overhead, their great wings barely moving against the afternoon sky. In Celtic legend, swans are shape-shifters and messengers, creatures that move between worlds. Two of them arriving over a place called Witch Bay felt less like a coincidence and more like a sign — though of what, exactly, we couldn’t say.

Majestic is the only word for it.

They also made us a little homesick. Back in Pagosa Springs, Colorado — our home base when we’re not living aboard — there is a swan who has claimed the local pond as his own personal kingdom. His name is Swan Solo. He is singular, he is imperious, and he is, in his way, irreplaceable. We hope he is having a lovely summer without us and that someone is giving him the attention he clearly feels he deserves.

Whatever spell Witch Bay cast over us that evening, we weren’t complaining. Wild strawberries in the rocks, swans at dusk, a waterfall that kept us humble — it was, in its own quietly magical way, another lovely day on the water.

We are learning to trust the enchantment up here.

Timing is everything!

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The next morning began the way the best ones do. One of us slipped out of bed first, got the French press going, and by the time the coffee was ready, we were both sitting over the charts figuring out the day. There is a rhythm to mornings aboard Bearcruzer — a mental checklist that moves in a particular order, covering the inside of the boat, the dinghy, the dog, and the two of us, all coordinated and timed with the quiet efficiency of people who have learned, sometimes the hard way, that order matters out here.

This was a morning for learning it again.

The departure routine goes like this: Mike raises the anchor, eases Bearcruzer into reverse, uses the bow thrusters to position her toward the mouth of the anchorage. During this maneuver, the dinghy rides alongside the boat, secured by a line that gets let out to tow length once we’re underway and moving safely away from any hazards. The key word being once. Releasing that line too soon risks one thing above all others: the line finding its way around the propeller.

You guessed it…I released the line too soon.

There was a moment — a brief, horrible moment — when everything felt fine. And then the engine stopped. Not gradually, not with any warning. Just stopped, the way engines do when something has wrapped itself around the prop and asked them very firmly to quit.

Mike lowered the anchor again and raised the engine. Sure enough: dinghy line, wound snugly and thoroughly around the propeller, looking almost smug about it. He reached for his knife, ready to cut it free. But we weren’t in any danger, the boat was secure, and so we took a breath and took our time. I worked the line loose by hand, turn by turn, and managed to free it completely — intact, no damage done. The engine, bless it, started right up the moment the line was clear.

We looked at each other. We did not say much.

There is a reason the morning routine runs in a particular order, in a particular way, with particular timing. It isn’t habit for habit’s sake — it’s two people, a dog, and a boat operating as a system, and when one piece moves out of sequence, the whole thing knows it.

Lesson learned. Again. Don’t rush. Do things right, in the right order, and trust the system — and the person running it alongside you.

Now. On to the next adventure.

Time to Move!

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We said farewell to Bald Indian Bay and wound our way through Bigstone Bay, slipped through the skinny curves of Eagle Passage, and eased into Moore Bay — where we promptly made our first mistake of the day.

We’d spotted what looked like a perfect anchorage near a small island with a clearing, just the right size for a Sierra shore visit. We dropped the hook, congratulated ourselves quietly, and settled in. Lake of the Woods, however, had other plans. The winds picked up — as they tend to do on afternoons out here — and what had seemed like a quiet, sheltered spot revealed itself to be neither. Bearcruzer began tugging at her anchor with some enthusiasm, and the anchorage went from peaceful to rodeo in about twenty minutes.

This was, of course, right in the middle of my ASI board of directors video call.

Simply said, I excused myself from the call, we started the engine, hauled the anchor, and moved Bearcruzer further east into Moore Bay to a snug little anchorage called Pipestone Portage. I rejoined the call approximately twenty minutes later, composed and professional, from a boat that was now perfectly still. Remote work, Lake of the Woods edition.

Pipestone Portage turned out to be the better choice in every way. The holding was solid, the protection was excellent, and the fishing — as Mike quickly discovered — was outstanding. He caught his limit on walleye. I pulled in a respectable black crappie. The winds eventually settled down as if apologizing for the earlier drama, and we sat in the cockpit watching the sun go down over the water. This far north in summer, sunset doesn’t arrive until around nine o’clock, and it takes its time getting there. We let it.

Bald Indian Bay

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Lake of the Woods does not let you get comfortable.

After topping off at Devils Gap and leaving Kenora behind, we decided to take a slightly different route out just to mix things up — and the lake immediately reminded us why it demands our full attention. Out here, route planning is less a fixed itinerary and more a loose suggestion. We’re constantly scanning for rocks and hazards lurking just below the surface, cross-referencing the GPS for shallow water, and cheerfully abandoning the plan whenever something interesting catches our eye.

The shallow water alarm still catches us off guard on occasion. There’s a particular kind of collective breath-holding that happens aboard Bearcruzer when that thing goes off — eyes on the depth sounder, eyes on the water, nobody saying much. We’ve learned, though, that we tend to have about two feet under the keel even when the alarm insists otherwise. We are wary. We are watchful. And we are, so far, still floating. Whew.

We headed south, then east, and turned Bearcruzer up into Bald Indian Bay, where we found another lovely nook tucked into the northwest side of Sultana Island. And just like our first night in Canadian waters, a Bald Eagle was waiting for us — perched in a tree above the anchorage as if he’d been expecting company. We exchanged a glance. Thanks Dad. Some things don’t need to be said out loud.

A mother Common Goldeneye Duck and her baby paddled by inspecting us as we set the anchor, apparently satisfied with what they found, and Sierra made it very clear that the official welcome committee could wait — she needed to go ashore.

We loaded into the dinghy and set off to explore the northernmost point of Sultana Island. Rounding the point, we came across something genuinely rare on this lake: a clearing. Open ground is hard to come by out here, where the boreal forest grows straight down to the water’s edge, so we pulled the dinghy up and went to investigate. The clearing had clearly been discovered before us — a small dock tucked into the reeds, a weathered picnic table, a fish cleaning plank, a fire pit, and a handful of empty bottles that suggested more than a few good evenings had been spent in this spot. We couldn’t argue with the taste of whoever found it first.

Back in the dinghy and rounding a small rocky island off the point, the afternoon offered up one more surprise. A redwing blackbird was putting up a tremendous fuss — dive-bombing something small and brown moving through the rocks below. I asked Mike to circle the dinghy back around.

A mink. An actual wild mink, going about its business, entirely unbothered by the bird’s outrage.

I was absolutely tickled. There is something deeply satisfying about seeing a mink in its natural habitat rather than draped across someone’s shoulders at a cocktail party.

We spent the rest of the afternoon in that glassy cove, the kind of afternoon that’s hard to describe without sounding like you’re bragging. Mike fished off the stern. I settled in with my book. Something good came off the stove as the light went golden. The eagle called. The water barely moved.

Some days out here are about the miles. This one was about the stillness.

Where Do You Think You Are?

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It started, as so many of Mike’s projects do, with a problem to solve.

He’d noticed that on breezy nights, Bearcruzer has a tendency to swing around her anchor line and make enough noise to interrupt a good night’s sleep. Solution: an anchor snubber bridle, rigged from what we had on hand. It worked well enough, but Mike being Mike, he immediately identified the one thing that would make it work better. “What we really need is a shackle. Let’s pick one up before we leave town — we should be able to find one at the marina when we refuel.”

Reasonable assumption. As it turned out, a bit optimistic.

But first, a lovely morning neighborhood walk, breakfast aboard Bearcruzer, and the important business of dressing Sierra in her very fashionable lifejacket. With the crew properly outfitted and fed, we made our way to Devils Gap Marina to top off the fuel tanks before leaving the comforts of civilization and heading out into the wilds of Lake of the Woods.

Refueling Bearcruzer is its own little production. It begins with a slow approach, binoculars raised, scanning the docks to figure out where the fuel actually is. Then comes the wind assessment, the bumper decision, the dock line strategy — and then my personal favorite part: the delicate dance of getting myself, the bumpers, and the lines all the way around the narrow gunwale and into position before we arrive. It is a choreographed routine at this point, and I will say we are getting better at it.

While the dock attendant topped off our tanks, Mike and I headed up to the marina store in search of the shackle. The store turned out to be more convenience store than marine outfitter — snacks, sundries, a healthy selection of fishing lures — but hardware? Slim pickings. We asked the person behind the counter if they had any shackles.

A blank stare.

“What’s a shackle?”

We explained. A shackle is a U-shaped metal fastener with a pin across the opening, used to connect lines and fittings — in this case, to complete Mike’s anchor snubber bridle.

Another pause.

“What’s a snubber?”

And there it was. The moment it became completely clear that we are not in coastal cruising territory anymore. Lake of the Woods has over 65,000 miles of shoreline when you count its 14,000-plus islands and the surrounding mainland. It is a vast, magnificent, fish-filled wilderness. It is not, however, a place where the marina store stocks shackles — or where anyone particularly needs one.

We thanked them, smiled, and headed back to the boat. We’ll make do with what we have.

As Mike’s hat says: Among the Wild.

A Stop in the Town of Kenora

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Leaving “Marty’s” anchorage was harder than we expected. There’s something about a place that greets you with butterflies and Bald Eagles that makes the anchor feel heavier when it’s time to go. But explore we must, and besides, Canada wouldn’t allow us to bring in any fresh fruits and vegetables, so onward to Kenora it was.

We followed the main route northeast for about 22 miles at our usual fuel-conserving trawler pace of 7 to 8 mph, and we’ve been leaning heavily on the Canadian Series Detailed Lake Maps published by Fishing Hot Spots to find our way. Lake of the Woods is enormous — the sixth largest lake in the USA after the Great Lakes, as our CBP officer reminded us — with so many islands and channels that route planning without a good paper chart feels like a fool’s errand. We use the maps to get the big picture and plot our course, then trust the GPS to keep us honest on the way there. Highly recommend them to anyone cruising these waters.

Kenora turned out to be a genuine little Town, a welcome sight after days in the wilderness. We tied up at the public dock and explored the area closest to the waterfront before making the walk to the local Safeway to restock on fruits, vegetables, and a little wine and beer for evening happy hours at anchor. There are smaller docks right next to the Safeway for boaters who want to arrive by dinghy, but after a full day of cruising, it felt good to just walk, bags and backpack in hand, stretching our legs on solid ground like regular people.

With the provisioning done, we checked the charts and found a well-protected anchorage just northwest of town in Keewatin Bay. We settled in alongside a moored houseboat and an older yacht, neither of them occupied, which suited us fine. And then we noticed it: sitting out in the middle of the bay, moored to nothing in particular, was a floating swim platform — with a hot tub on it. We did not investigate whether it was operational. Some mysteries are better left unsolved.

That evening, we took Sierra ashore along what turned out to be a snowmobile trail, which wound through the woods and eventually delivered us to a set of railroad tracks — and two very startled white-tailed deer who clearly had not expected company. Back at the boat, we spent the next solid hour doing what every dog owner in tick country learns to do: brushing Sierra out completely and conducting a full tick check on each other. It has become as much a part of our anchoring routine as setting the hook. Unglamorous? Yes. Necessary? Absolutely.

The next morning, I decided Sierra deserved a gentler outing. I loaded her into the dinghy and motored over to the small community of Keewatin, where we walked along proper sidewalks through a beautifully manicured Beatty Park. No snowmobile trails, no railroad tracks, no deer, and — fingers crossed — no ticks. She trotted along happily, and honestly, so did I. The wilderness is magnificent, but sometimes a well-kept park and a flat sidewalk are exactly what the crew needs.

North to Canada

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We said a fond goodbye to Bobbies Bay on Oak Island, grateful for the shelter it had given us and the muddy little hike through the woods to Sunset Resort that Sierra had thoroughly enjoyed. With the anchor up and the bow pointed northwest, we set our sights on the NW Angle — the northernmost point of the contiguous United States — and whatever lay beyond it.

One thing we’re learning out here is that “marina” means something different on Lake of the Woods. Forget the fixed docks and ship’s stores we know from the coast or the Caribbean. Out here, the boats are small fishing rigs, and Bearcruzer qualifies as a large vessel. We pulled cautiously through the shallow entrance of Youngs Bay Marina and eased onto their fuel dock — Mike’s captaining skills on full display — topped off our tanks, snapped a few photos, and then did something we’d never done before: checked into Canada via a white handheld phone mounted on a booth near the dock. No appointment, no border crossing, no lineup. Just pick up the receiver, follow the CBP officer’s instructions, and answer a few questions. When they asked how long we planned to be in Canadian waters, we said at least a couple of weeks. The officer paused and said, “How about 21 days?” Being the sixth largest lake in the US after the Great Lakes, he probably knew better than we did. We took the 21 days.

Just north of Youngs Bay, we made our way around Magnuson Island to get a look at Fort St. Charles — a re-erected French fur trading post from 1732 that served as a vital base for western exploration. We really wanted to go ashore and poke around, but the wind was blowing hard out of the northwest and straight onshore. The fort wasn’t going anywhere, but Bearcruzer might have, so we settled for photos from the water and pointed ourselves further north in search of a calm anchorage for the night.

The further north we traveled, the more dramatic the landscape became. Lake of the Woods was carved by glaciers, and it shows — granite island outcrops rise straight out of the water, draped in dense moss, ferns, and lichen, with a remarkable mix of southern hardwoods and boreal forest growing right down to the shoreline. It feels ancient out here, in the best possible way.

Following the main track north toward Kenora, we passed Cochrane Island and noticed a small, unnamed island tucked beside it, with a calm patch of water between them and a little beach just big enough for Sierra to stretch her legs. We dropped anchor and barely had time to set it before we spotted them: a pair of Bald Eagles perched in a dead tree directly overlooking our anchorage, keeping a watchful eye on the new arrivals.

Then came the butterflies and dragonflies across the bow — always a welcome blessing.

We dinghied ashore and walked the little beach with Sierra, and as if the eagles weren’t gift enough, we found a couple of fishing lures along the water’s edge. That evening we sat in the cockpit and watched as the eagles weathered a noisy bombardment from the neighboring crows with complete dignity, and brought food in to their nestling as the light faded. Their calls echoed across the water long after dark.

We thought of Dad. He would have loved every minute of this — the eagles, the wilderness, the quiet. He is soaring with them now, above this little bit of heaven on earth.

Miss you, Pops.

Arlo Martin Sperry Jr 9/27/37 – 03/06/26