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USA Edition | Today Is Tuesday, March 9, 2010 |
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USA Edition | Today Is Tuesday, March 9, 2010 |
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Dawn On Lake Kagawong Presents A New Day, New Opportunities, New Risks
“Better get some power going,” Keith shouted at Colin through the howling wind. Even as he spoke, Keith was hanging onto the sides of the wildly rocking boat.
This true story is the fourth of eight installments dealing with experiences outdoorsman Keith Bemis and I shared with Colin Montgomery, one of the most engaging characters many of us will ever meet. Although the events portrayed in this series of stories are true, they transpired over several years.
I remember it like it was yesterday. For years the three of us had fished the lakes of Manitoulin, but this day would be like no other. It would change our lives, and it would forever change how we saw — and trusted — one another.
It all began one hot July morning while staying at Dawson’s Resort on the southeast bay of Kagawong — one of Canada’s most gorgeous lakes. While Keith and I loved the island’s other large lakes, Manitou, and Mindamyoa, it was lake Kagawong that called us to Canada several times each summer — as much for the company of one another as for joy of landing something large enough to take back to camp. It was not the fishing, for Canada’s bountiful lakes are many and diverse.
Outdoorsman Keith Bemis with Blugill. Aboard the SS Bear's Den, Sixth Crow Wing Lake, Minnesota
While Keith Bemis and I had known one another for many years, our companion for all those memorable summers was a character worthy of Jack London. His name was Colin Montgomery, and he was not only the best fisherman I would come to know, he was one of the most interesting characters any of us might ever come to know. It was Montgomery who brought us to this place.
While we knew him well, neither of us could fully describe him — for Colin Montgomery was someone prone to talking your ears off. In the doing he made fun of our every mistake, anointed my airplane ostentatious, and found our fishing tackle too much, too expensive and largely unnecessary. But while he could be maddening, stubborn and occasionally profane, Montgomery endeared himself to those he came to know by his deeds, character and openness. In spite of being possessed of more blarney than all of Ireland, devilish by nature, opinionated, and prone to tip a few at the neighborhood bar in Mindamoya. He was not perfect, but he was all man and wonderful.
Fishermen are a strange lot. I count myself among them, for the men and women with whom I have shared the outdoors measure-up in terms of being successful at the business of life. Two of those people, my long time friend Keith Bemis, who now lives on the shores of beautiful Sixth Crow Wing Lake in the north woods of Minnesota, and Colin Montgomery, our sometime guide, and one of life’s most compelling characters, were central players in an adventure none of us would ever forget.
Colin Montgomery was a rough hewn man, wide shouldered and powerful. He spoke with a delicate Canuck twang that sometimes shot from his mouth like bullets — punctuated when necessary by his gravelly voice. His hands were large and rough, his thumbs stubby and his fingers calloused from doing real work. He was not, by any means a pretty man, but he was among the most beautiful people Keith and I would ever know. He was the master of his environment, indoors and out, for he knew what it was to hunt in the Canadian winter, travel the waters of more lakes than most of us could remember, and catch fish when others could only drown worms.
All morning, Keith had been reeling fish while Colin Montgomery and I mostly watched. Now, in the hot afternoon sun we sat quietly waiting for action that failed to come.
Perhaps our earlier success that morning had been our problem — for we moved around the western lobe of Lake Kagawong several times trying new places and revisiting favored spots from years before. As the afternoon wore on, the fishing, at least for Keith and I, steadily got worse while Colin, who thought fishing for lake trout on a hot July day to be silly, continued to land an occasional bass or perch. Maybe that was why it remained so quiet — not at all typical of a day on the lake with Colin.
Weather Can Change Faster Than Fishermen May Notice
Suddenly, the silence was broken. “Yer face is as red as a monkey’s ass,” Colin said to me matter of factly. “We better do some shady fishun don-cha think?”
That question would never be answered. Even as Colin spoke, Keith gestured at the sky from the front of the boat. “Look at those clouds guys — it’s not going to be sunny out here for very long.”
When I turned to see what Keith was talking about, the sinister clouds just west of Kagawong made it abundantly clear we were about to get wet. The implications of the fast approaching squall line were ominous. The giant roll-cloud was already skimming the surface of Lake Kagawong — and the towering Cumulonimbus thunderstorms behind would soon overrun us.
The roll-cloud was well developed — as is typical of the squall lines that accompany tornado-bearing cold fronts in the Midwest. My meteorological training gave me to understand just how much trouble we were in. Big winds, thunderstorms and small boats are not meant to be in the same place at the same time. At that moment our day changed — for each of us knew we had been caught at the wrong place at the wrong time. Even with experienced hands aboard, row boat encounters with thunderstorms can be disastrous. The approaching squall line was moving northeast at so fast there was not time for us to make shore. Just then, the first gusts from the approaching roll-cloud began to set our little boat dancing on suddenly choppy waters.
I turned to Colin, “Maybe we better get to shore. . .” but before he could answer, a massive gust ripped across the lake send what had been nearly still waters into frothy wavelets. In an instant our boat was pulling at our stern-mounted anchor chain at Colin’s end of the boat. From my position at mid-boat I heard Keith shouting, “We need to get the hell out of here!”
I was the last to get my line out of the water. By then, Colin was grabbing for the anchor. In the confusion, Keith shouted out, “What the Hell is going on?”
“I think we’re a’comin’ loose,” Colin responded, but the pressure on the anchor line made it impossible to free from the lake bottom. Just then, another gust hit us from behind . In a flash, Colin grabbed an oar to steady the boat
“You need help?” Keith shouted into the wind?
“Don’t be movin’ about,” Colin commanded, waving Keith to stay put.
Then another gust hit us hard from the port side nearly lifting our bobbing craft from the water. No more had Keith settled back to his seat when the roll cloud’s downdraft hit us like a hammer. It may have been a water spout, but whatever it was, a massive wave of cold air fell upon us — sending our tackle boxes and belongings rolling about our imperiled craft.
“It’s a squall line downdraft,” I shouted to Colin. I’m not sure he heard me, but I continued, “Bad enough to knock an airliner out of the sky or swamp a three-masted sail boat.”
I don’t know if either Keith or Colin they heard any of what I had said for by then the wind whipped the waters around us into a foaming fury. We were in trouble, big trouble.
“This is not good,” I foolishly assured Colin.
“No shit,” he exclaimed, motioning toward Keith. “Grab that oar,” he ordered. “Come about so I can free the damn anchor!”
Keith understood we were vulnerable to wind and waves. Oar in hand, he pushed the oar away from him to turn our bow into the raging wind. No matter how hard he tried, we remained as we were, puling hard on the anchor line. It was hopeless. With the wind blowing furiously from nearly every direction, Kieth’s efforts failed to turn us about.
By then the squall line was directly overhead. When I looked up, the sky had taken on a ragged look. By then a small hole of light appeared through the clouds to the east. The worst was over, I thought as I looked skyward. Not that my opinion mattered, for the winds were still raging and the lake waters roiling around us. We were still in perilous danger with the stern of our boat still facing squarely into the wind.
“Better get some power going,” Keith shouted at Colin over the howling wind. Even as he spoke, Keith was hanging onto the sides of our wildly rocking boat with both hands. So was I.
“Yep,” Colin was shouting as he yanked the starter cord on the small Evinrude outboard.
“Maybe if we can backup a little . . .,” He said, as he pulled the cord again and again. “I may need some help when I get ‘er started. . .”
The little motor caught momentarily then haltingly came to a stop. Even as the starter cord was reeling back into the motor housing, another squall line downdraft hit us with what must have been a gust well over sixty miles per hour. Suddenly our small boat was listing to port and rocking uncontrollably.We were going into the water for sure — if not blown overboard, by sinking with a floundering boat.
The look on Keith’s face told me I was not alone in thinking one more whip of wind would capsize the boat.
Suddenly, Keith pointed toward Colin, but I couldn’t hear what he said in the gusting wind.
Just then, Colin yanked on the starter handle as hard as he could. Even in the wind I could head a loud Whack! Colin nearly fell out of the boat when the starter cord suddenly broke. Instantly, the handle less starter cord snapped back into the motor housing.
It was all over. We were going into the cold Kagawong waters for certain. At that moment, we were no longer three men enjoying a summer outing. No matter the wind and pelting rain adversity bonded us in ways only males seem to experience. For when the last big gust pushed us nearly vertical on the port side, we knew the end was at hand. We were cold, tired, fearful, angry and desperate.
“Lean inta the wind!” Colin shouted at the top of his lungs. Keith and I heard him, and we leaned starboard with all our strength. It seemed forever, but once that gust played out, we fell back into the roiling water.
“Good thing we brought da fat guy,” Colin called out to Keith, fumbling to find a fresh cigarette to replace the one blown out of his mouth by the storm. “He’d make a pretty good anchor too,” he said, giving forth a wry smile he reserved for those he felt closest to.
“He can row us home,” Keith suggested, being certain that the broken starter cord meant the Evinrude has become a passenger for the remainder of the day.
It was then we realized that the winds were diminishing.
Roll Clouds Bring Winds Of Change
When Colin lit his stubby cigarette he saw that the changing in wind direction had set free our anchor. He pulled on the cable to confirm that the anchor had broken loose from the mud shallows.
“We’re drifting,” Keith told him as our tiny boat turned sideways — drifting to the east — toward mid-lake.
“Gimme a hand,” Colin told him, “the damn anchor’s dragging in weeds.”
Moments later Keith was alongside Colin yanking in the anchor chain. It was then I noted that Keith was standing in water over his shoes.
“Better open the cover,” he said, motioning for Colin to unlatch the motor cover.
“Yew better start bailin’,” Colin shouted at me, as he wrestled with the motor housing latch. I reached for the bait can at my feet, threw the remaining bait into the rough waters, and began to bail. No matter my motivation, my bailing efforts were no match for the wind driven water and spray coming over the sides.
Just then the motor cover popped open and all I could hear was Keith and Colin hollering at one another in the winds. That’s when Keith kicked the fish keeper bucket towards me.
“Better us this if you don’t want to swim home,” he shouted.
He was right — I had chosen the wrong bailing vessel. So, I tossed our fish over board and began to bail with the gallon-sized bucket. I was so busy bailing I didn’t notice the winds had stopped. Fortunately, as the squall line moved away, the lake waters quickly settled. We were still adrift and without power — but we were afloat. Even so, we would have our hands full keeping that way. It’s a good thing I was already bailing, for once the winds had died, the skies turned into a horrendous waterfall.
Angler, Ballast, Storyteller
When first of the thunderstorms moved overhead, the heavy rains began. Almost at once, rain was coming down in sheets. While Keith and Colin were trying to start the Evinrude, I was bailing as fast as I could, but it was clear I wasn’t making any progress. In the back, Keith and Colin took turns trying to pry the starting cord off the reel — but to no avail. The pelting rain made it all but impossible for either of them to get hold of the slippery nylon cord — so we remained powerless and adrift. We weren’t in immediate peril, but we were soaking wet, cold and miserable.
Start rowing,” I could hear Keith shouting at me.”
“Rowing?” I shouted in disbelief, “To where?,” I foolishly asked.
Keith pointed toward the tree line along the west shore. I mounted the oars into the fulcrum sockets and tried my best to turn the little boat around. The wooden boat was sloppy and heavy with all the water we had taken on, but my efforts finally paid off.
Eventually, Keith and Colin gave up on getting the Evinrude started. When Colin began to bail, Keith offered to take a turn at the oars. I happily moved to the bow seat, weary and miserable from being totally soaked.
While it seemed to take forever in the pelting rain and wind, it took little more than perhaps ten minutes for Keith to row us into shallow waters near shore. Keith, an experienced boatman, easily moved our boat us into a little cove. There, even if we sank, we were in less than a foot of water. Good thing too. With lighting all around us, the rain turned to hail the size of golf balls.
I don’t know why, but I grabbed my little bait can again and joined Colin in the bailing. I could see him looking at me disbelievingly, the soggy stump of his new cigarette still dangling along his lower lip. His face was tense and tired. Hell, we all were. We had barely escaped death — we all knew that, but none said a word about it. As quickly as it had begun, the hail turned back into rain. The inside of our boat looked like a bathtub full of golf balls. I don’t know to this day why none of us were injured by the hailstorm — but we came through without injury to anything beyond our male egoes.
We sat, there for the longest time, waiting for the storm to abate. Keith, who was soaked down to his skin looked every bit as miserable as I was. Although we were now safe from everything but lightening, the pelting rain continued with considerable fury. There was no shelter, no place to go. We had to endure nature’s fury.
Before long the rain abated. In the silence that followed, we were as one. Then, when a stab of sunlight appeared to the west it was over. Out boat was heavy in the water, we were all soaked, our gear was strewn everywhere about us. We were safe.
We were also without power and perhaps six miles from Dawson’s boat house.
Before long, Colin’s ruddy face widened into a palpable smile. Then the laughter erupted — sending his soaked cigarette spewing out into the lake. He was looking directly at me — no doubt laughing at the image of us both bailing furiously. In the aftermath of shared battle, there are moments when laughter is both spontaneous and delicious. The rain had stopped. The wind was gone. The hail melted. We had , at that moment, triumphed over our own stupidity. For the longest time the three of us laughed like mad men.
When the sun broke out, Colin was the first to speak. “She ain’t gonna start,” he said confidently to Keith. Then to me, “You better sit in the back — and see if you can get rid of summore of this water.”
With that, Colin turned our little boat toward the distant tip of the peninsula and began to row. “Where are we going?,” Keith wanted to know.
“Home,” Colin said matter of factly.
“You sure it’s safe?,” Keith and I exclaimed more or less in unison.
“Dunno,” Colin replied, ” . . . but it’s a three hour trip with the oars — we could miss dinnertime.” Neither Keith or I seem convinced, so he added, “Besides, missus don’t want me on the lake after dark . . .”
“Maybe someone else will give us a tow,” I suggested.
“Halfta be the dumb ones,” Colin retorted — speaking of other boaters and fishermen and strongly emphasizing the word dumb.
“The smart ones were off the lake before all hell broke loose.”
We laughed heartily — but each of us, in our own way, knew our escape from the storm had changed us in ways that would take years to fully understand.
