Under the Northern Lights

I posted a while back about the summer fishing/camping trip to the “secret” middle-of-the-wilderness lake my buddy “Scott” (we’ll call him) and I took each year — along with anyone we could talk into joining us. It was our annual pilgrimage for almost two decades.

Three times during that era we vacationed somewhere else: a cabin on Lake Kabetogama (where I caught zero fish); a houseboat on Lake Vermilion (loved sleeping on the water); and that time on the Churchill River in northern Saskatchewan.

We were so far north we were under the Northern Lights.

Which were prominent that year — a lightshow every night almost directly overhead. They manifested in the typical pale green curtain-like form of the aurora borealis. We were as tiny ants peering up at a giant slowly waving theatre curtain. It was my favorite memory of that trip (and as you’ll see, it has some competition).

Due to the Earth’s rotation, the “curtain” started each night slightly north of directly overhead and moved a bit south until about 1 AM (midnight without day light saving time). Then it would move northward again.

Frame from a NASA animation about auroras. The “curtain” is shown as circular (but not perfectly so). The part furthest from the Sun (midnight on Earth) is often pushed south by Solar wind.

Looked at from above the North Pole, because of the Solar wind, the aurora can form a somewhat teardrop shape with the tail pointing away from the Sun. That tail corresponds to midnight on Earth.

We were also far enough north that, while the Sun did set and rise, giving us generally dark nights, there was a dim glow we saw work its way across the northern horizon from where the Sun set to where it would, in about five or so hours, rise again. Very short summer nights that far north [see Solar Derivative].

[The most spectacular aurora lightshow I ever saw filled the entire sky overhead with moving sheets and blotches of many-colored light. I saw it from right here in the Twin Cities — which is halfway between the North Pole and the Equator. The lights felt so close, and moved so swiftly, that it was almost scary to watch. But one of the most breathtaking sights of my life.]

This trip, which we took in the late 1980s or early 1990s, was for me one of the wilder ones. No, put that way, definitely the wildest. But not close to being my favorite (fave would be the houseboat on Vermilion; there are multiple runners up). There were too many personal discomforts involved for me (but I made the best of it and truly — albeit not constantly — enjoyed myself).

There were six of us — three were strangers to me (and not guys I particularly took to; their names are fuzzy now). “Scott” and our buddy “Dave” (as I’ll call them) were good friends of mine, co-workers, in fact. They knew the three other guys (TOGs); good friends of Dave’s that Scott had met. Dave invited Scott, and Scott invited me. As an alternative to our usual pilgrimage to Thompson Lake [see Canadian Camping 1996 and Ronning’s Lake Carvings for details].

La Ronge, Saskatchewan, Canada. Latitude: 55° 06′ North! (That tip on the top of Minnesota sticks up from the bottom middle-right of the image. Hudson Bay lurks in the upper right.

Getting to the Churchill River involved two stages: driving to La Ronge, Saskatchewan (Canada); and flying in a floatplane from La Ronge to the campsite along (part of) the river. We rented a motorhome style RV and hitched a trailer to it to carry most of our gear.

We drove a nonstop for 24 hours. (We cooked food in the RV’s kitchen.) In one of those Bad Ideas one looks back at with chagrin, we also had a keg of beer nestled in ice back in the bathtub. (A bigger Bad Idea: the TOGs brought cocaine to keep them alert while driving.)

[We three hadn’t bought in so didn’t partake. I don’t care for the stuff. I certainly don’t need the ego-boo; I can tap my energy reserves without it (don’t even need caffeine); it’s too damn expensive for such a short ride; and I avoid drugs that require heavy chemical processing — nasty stuff in almost all cases; stick to the organics.]

We shared the driving, spelling each other in a rotation. With someone riding shotgun as a co-pilot. The four off-duty guys partied in the back or napped. In our defense, for the most part, napping was before a driving shift, and partying was after.

The Churchill River basin (which drains into the Hudson Bay).

We also brought a lot of wacky-tabaky. Like a pound. Most of which we smuggled into Canada in a very clever way I’ll keep to myself. (No, not frozen in ground meat or stashed in tires. Much cleverer than that!) Our geographic travels were one thing, but we stayed in metaphorical Hooterville the entire time.

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Once we got to La Ronge, we loaded all our gear and food (just purchased Canadian beer) onto medium-sized floatplanes. Memory is dim (see previous paragraph) but as I recall we’d planned for the two planes but ended up having to add a smaller plane because of all the stuff we brought.

In La Ronge loading one of the (medium-sized) floatplanes.

Of course, when we flew out, the food and beer were gone (but our coolers were full of fish), so we didn’t need the extra plane. [BTW: Click on these photos for a large version if so inclined.]

Looking back from plane #1 (as it leaves) to plane #2 being loaded. Note the smaller plane on the right.

The only human-made objects at the campsite were a log dock made by a local native (who enters the story later) and two boats plus gas hauled in separately as part of our fly-in rental. (Same as on our usual annual fly-in to Thompson minus the dock or local native.)

I don’t think this is the falls we visited, but it does look very similar. The river has lots of spots like it, though.

It’s not fully apparent from the river basin map above how gnarly the geography of the river really is. It’s lined with small bays and tributaries. It was so convoluted it was easy to get lost on. Which we did more than once.

There are also rapids and small waterfalls to avoid, not to mention lots of boat-smashing giant boulders lurking beneath the surface. Constant vigilance is required to watch for and avoid them.

A small bit of a very gnarly river. Lots of back bays (like the one directly past the plane wing strut) and rapids or small falls (like those in the upper left).

But the country is stunning and wild. The thing I love most about deep woods camping is being on your own tens of miles away from other humans (let alone populated areas). Being alone in any kind of wilderness gets you as close to nature as possible these days.

But fly-in trips are a lot of work. We schlep the gear and food (and beer) from the RV and trailer to the dock, from the dock to the plane (with the pilot placing pieces in a cargo jigsaw puzzle), from the plane to the campsite dock, and finally from that dock to the campsite. Then we pitch tents, setup a screen tent for escaping bugs while eating, and do various other campsite et cetera necessary for a comfortable ten-day stay. Going home reverses all that.

A key reason for the extra plane: the TOGs bought a tower of Canadian beer. That stack was just for them (although they did occasionally deign to share some). Stack was gone after ten days.

Considering the gear includes a couple hefty boat motors, multiple big coolers, tents, fishing gear, boxes of food, a tower of beer, and our clothes, it’s a lot. The only thing that didn’t go back was the boxes of food (and the beer). And we did our own cooking and cleaning.

[No, I’m not sore about the beer. Why do you ask?]

But the work more than pays off in the solitude and beauty.

South view from our campsite close to sunset.

Even so, one reason I don’t do these trips anymore is the work involved. Haven’t in over twenty years. Not that I’m incapable of it so much as that I now prefer luxury vacations where other people do all the work. At this point in my life, I’d rather stay at a nice hotel in a new-to-me city, eat and drink at interesting restaurants, and see the sights. [See Boston Boondoggle. Someday I’ll post about a truly awesome Seattle trip.]

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One of the many differences between the TOGs versus me, Scott, and Dave, was their almost complete lack of interest in fishing for walleye. They were out for the northern pike (which were plentiful). The walleyes were harder to find and catch.

From the log dock looking back at part of the campsite. Our two boats are on the front left. The screen tent is visible in the back right. The two tents are out of frame to the right.

Even Scott and Dave were somewhat infected with pike fever, though we did hunt for walleye quite a few times. (Oddly, I like eating northern more than I do walleye. Northern have more fish flavor; walleye is somewhat bland — a reason many people favor it.)

The local native who — to attract fisher/campers — built the dock and cleared some trees to make a better campsite was also a fishing guide. He was known and recommended by the fly-in service, so we hired him for the first days of the trip to learn the best fishing spots.

Our river and fishing guide (right) and me (center) with a stringer of walleye (and one northern hanging below the walleye). One of the TOGs peeks in from the lower left.

He considered northerns “rough” fish and didn’t like them — possibly because they’re so common. Or maybe because they’re covered in slime and crazy (and thus a pain to handle). He fed his family mostly by net fishing for whitefish. (Only the natives are allowed to use nets. Part of their cultural history.)

Me (left), Dave (center), and Scott (right) back at the campsite with our fishing haul for the day. Our boat is on the far right. Note who has all the walleye!

Those first days with the guide, we all stuck together. After that, we often fished separately, the TOGs chasing pike, we three hunting the elusive walleye. We ate meals together and partied together after dark, and there were two memorable times when we fished as a group.

Either a small waterfall or a brief stretch of rapids. The bigger drop of the waterfall is out of frame to the right.

The first was when we hiked downriver to a spot just below a small waterfall (almost more of a short rapids) and got together for a shore dinner with a friend of the TOGs (Ron) who happened to be vacationing further down the river. (The Churchill River was a spot they’d all visited several times before.) Ron was able to boat up to the spot; we had to hike around the unnavigable stretch.

Ron (the walleye expert) in his boat with his stringer of walleye. They’re what’s for dinner.

We fished the pond below the falls with no luck. Fortunately for our dinner, Ron brought a stringer of walleye he’d caught earlier that day. He predicted that when the sun fell behind the trees, the walleye would start biting. And, boy, was he right. After we ate and the sun vanished, I made four casts and came up with a large walleye every time. I gave them to Ron in payment for dinner rather than hiking them back to the campsite.

Four casts, four fish. And not just fish, walleye! One of the best fishing experiences I’ve ever had. Batting 1.000 there!

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The second-best fishing experience happened later in the trip. We set out on our own to find a particularly productive back bay the guide had introduced to us. Not sure we found the same one (they all look a lot alike), but the one we found was incredible on several counts.

Super fishing in that back bay. Scott and Dave back right, two TOGs front left. Legions of mosquitos not visible but all too present. (One thing the TOGs taught me: sweatpants while camping is aces.)

Firstly, nearly every cast produced a northern. The fishing was so productive we made a rule that anything under six pounds goes back in the water. (Normally, anything over three pounds is a keeper.)

Secondly, the mosquitoes nearly drained us dry. Scott had long mocked my California hoodies (as not very Minnesota). He asked to borrow one that day. The hoodie kept the skeeters away from our necks.

Thirdly, I watched an eagle swoop down and puck up a four-pound pike we’d just released (and which was swimming a bit stunned just below the surface). Eagle scored a great meal!

Left to right: me (with some disdainfully little ones), Scott, a TOG, Dave, and a mess of fish (about half of what we caught; we couldn’t hold them all up).

We fished until the Sun was just setting, lost our way back, nearly ran out of gas, and returned to the campsite on fumes around 11:00 that night. But the TOGs got their mega meat run. Lotta fish for the cooler that night.

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It was early enough in the season, and far enough north, that we found a shaded spot that still had snow.

We found a fading snowbank along a tiny tributary to help chill our coolers. One of the prettier pictures from the trip. Especially worth clicking for the large version.

That helped us keep the fish cold. And we did the meat runs later in the trip so the filets wouldn’t spoil. Of course, we bought ice as soon as we got back to civilization. (And rented a motel room just long enough for us each to get a hot shower. I ended up last in line and nearly ran out of hot water.)

One of the funnier moments of the trip (at least to me, Scott, and Dave) was the time the TOGs came back to camp after a day of fishing. And drinking beer all day. TOG #1 (call him “Rick”) was driving and decided to be fancy by pulling up the prop just before the boat landed.

The TOGs navigating an exciting part of the river. The TOG in front is the lookout for giant boat-crushing boulders. The oar is for fending them off if they get too close.

But it slipped out of his grasp, fell back into the water going full throttle, and the boat slammed into the shore crashing into a huge boulder. The three guys went flying, the front guy out of the boat onto the shore, the other two into foot wells in the boat. Fortunately, they were drunk enough to be too relaxed to be hurt. We three watching from the dock nearly died laughing.

When I posted about the annual Thompson trips [again, see Canadian Camping 1996] I didn’t mention “the frying pan from hell”. It was a large cast iron skillet about two feet across. Easily cooked a pound of bacon or a whole mess of fried fish. The handle detached and could be stored inside, so it schlepped around like a giant iron frisbee. Naturally we brought it on this trip.

The frying pan from hell frying walleye.

Made it easy to cook all the fish at once and therefore eat together. The TOGs had a method of frying walleye involving a flour-egg mixture with Crystal hot sauce added for some tang. Tasty, but as with fried shrimp, one mostly tastes the batter. I prefer broiled seafood and fish. (Or grilled fish steaks with the right kind of fish.)

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Of course, the metaphorical Sun sets on all trips. Eventually, it’s time to go home.

A beautiful sunset. The picture doesn’t begin to do it justice. Not just because of the colors (this is a scan of an old picture). The sounds, scents, and feel of the wind off the river were part of the beauty.

And frankly, after ten days in the woods, I’m ready. You can imagine that with snow still around in shaded spots, the water was a bit cold for bathing or swimming. Sponging off was the best we could do. After ten days, one is downright gamey.

On these fly-in trips, there’s always a minor worry the fly-in service will somehow forget about your reservation to fly out. And since it’s a bit like a repairman or furniture delivery, there’s a time window when you expect them. Sometimes they’re a little late and your worry increases. Bad weather can mean even longer delays (potentially until the next day, and then you have to set up your tents again).

Yay! The plane is here! They didn’t forget about us!

So, it’s always nice to finally see that plane arrive. Of course, it also means you have to help load all your gear onto the plane.

Loading the plane. It’s possible we were able to all cram onto a single flight. I seem to remember it being very crowded on the way back.

And then unload it in La Ronge and reload it into the RV and trailer.

And then face a 24-hour drive home. (We stashed a small container of the icky sticky at a certain mile marker just below the US-Canadian border, so we stayed firmly in Hooterville until we got home.) We also stopped at a fast-food joint for some delicious high-fat high-salt processed food of “civilization”.

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One difference between Scott and I is that he camps for great fishing while I fish for great camping. Dave was bimodal; he loved them both. I never got to know the TOGs well enough to judge, but I think they were more into the fishing. (They teased friend Dave for his “wandering” mind; it was one of his many qualities that endeared him to me. Tragically, he died of brain cancer some years back. We miss him. One of the finest people I’ve known.)

It was literally a once-in-a-lifetime trip. Being the geek I am, the best part was being under the northern lights. A perfect frosting on a very tasty cake.

Stay camping, my friends! Go forth and spread beauty and light.

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