There is quite a bit less noise in the BWCA at present; it happens almost like the music stopping at the state fair, just so many fewer folks plying the waters; it’s simply that time again. The lack of, is truly appreciated.
We all split wood just after midday; the effort has been holstered. One very large Boreal forest submarine, feared by every other fish species in the north, has been filleted; no y-bones in the way, and enough fish for four.
Potatoes, lake-rinsed, sliced, not even close to restaurant- quality cuts, but they will fry just fine. The mounds of soon-to-be chips; one reaches for the remaining salt in the ruck, right out of the oil; they get sprinkled and eaten just as fast.
One wonders: with a plate of fish and chips on a metal plate with homemade tartar sauce, you have to ask yourself, is this the perfect way to end summer or kick off autumn. That campfire smoke wisping up, not in too much of a hurry to blow away, it almost steams up away from the flames. For dessert, we each had our own cans of Bush’s baked beans; that less-is-more feeling is warm, soothing, delicious, and fun.
We notice that no bugs, not one, zippo, as the water on the lake, must be tired, the lake is going flat, the silence eases in, loons must be gone off this water, no melancholy at tent time. Eyelids get heavy, no moon this night, I lay back, I’m smiling in the dark, like a simple idiot. No walls, no halls, just a sheet of fabric between me and the great outdoors; it’s just enjoying so little.
--The trout whisperer
