Big Chetak
10,000 Lakes
Oconomowoc
Bourbon Trail
Klondike Days
Taliesin
Point Brewery
Loon Capitol
Cars,Trains,Ducks
Far End of the Lake
Mad City
Fireside Theater
U505 Submarine
Berghoff & Blues
S.S. Badger
Mars Resort
Cranberry Harvest
Musky Hunt
Manitowoc
Fishing Museum
Green Lake, WI
Chicago River
Leinenkugel's
Little Norway
Green Co, WI
MN Zephyr
Are We There Yet?
The Finest of Times
More about Bemidji,
MN
More about Walker, MN
The
Life and Times of Mr. Pike
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 It all started the with a last-minute snafu that had
the potential to cancel altogether a vacation that was a year in the
making... Fortunately, there were other plans that were apparently
in the cards for us and, with a bit of scrambling, an alternate
destination was able to be input and we headed out of town on time
and anticipating some well deserved downtime.
I have always been a big believer in the power of
fate -- that all things happen for a reason. The actual reason for
the fouled-up itinerary is something of which I will never be even
remotely sure; something more powerful than me and my ability to
control my destiny was at work, and I shall not question the whys or
the wherefores. All I know is that our new destination was very near
to the place where I had spent many a summer vacation as a young
boy.
 Bagley, Minnesota is a very small town located
approximately 150 miles west of Duluth, and I have memories from
there that reach far beyond what I can actually recall on a moment's
notice; they are locked in my brain and only occasionally come
flooding back, tripped by a sight, sound or smell that just happens
innocently along. The memories are incredibly powerful and filled
with the joyous emotions that only young boys can comprehend:
picnicking (with the Neujahrs and Krauses); swimming underneath and
sitting on the submerged timbers of the diving platform at the local
beach at Lake Lamond, watching various fish cruise past; taking a
ride in Hank Krause's jeep and waiting while Hank stopped to shoot a
giant snapping turtle, prepared later in a huge batch of strange and
wonderfully-tasting soup; picking bing cherries with my mother and
grandparents alongside a gravel road; catching northern pike with my
father; watching my sister discover her first tick and trying to
decide what to do next ...
 There are thousands more, and they all now moisten
my eyes with little difficulty when I recall them. So when our
altered destination became Walker, and Minnesota's Leech Lake --
only about 35 miles from Bagley -- the floodgates of memory lake
suddenly opened wide. Fishing for walleye (or any other species for
that matter) suddenly took a back seat to a few other sights that I
was want to see. We spent the evening at the Americinn in Walker and
planned our agenda for the following day: a visit to the source of
the Mississippi River and to Bemidji, home of Paul Bunyan and Babe,
the Blue Ox.
Walker, Minnesota is a scant twenty-nine miles
from
Itasca State Park, a place that my father had decided the family
should visit, back in (circa) 1958. He was always trying to take us
to some place or another -- a state or national park or historical
place of significance -- we (my sister and I) were never interested
in acquiring historical or any other type of additional information.
After all, we were on vacation! Patti was interested in swimming and
tanning; I was interested only in things like fish and frogs and
skipping stones across the nearest puddle, pond or lake.
 Itasca was different. It had a teepee, an Indian
Chief and large stones stretching across a small stream at the end
of the lake, trickling away... to where I did not know. My father
told us that this was the very beginning of the Mississippi River.
At that point in my life, I knew next to nothing about the great
river, except perhaps, how to spell it. I did manage to coerce my
parents into buying me a peace-pipe from the chief (the chief had a
small store of souvenirs for sale) but, other than standing on those
rocks in the middle of the infant Mississippi, I remembered little,
not even the pictures taken of our family and of my sister and me.
Until, of course, I discovered how close I would once again be to
Itasca State Park. The memories of course came flooding back once
again... and the water was just fine!
Sunday morning dawned a beautiful day. The only
potential fly in the ointment was the threat of thunderstorms for
later in the day. The drive to Itasca was interesting; the highway
was almost void of automobiles, and the distinct lack of buildings
made it seem almost as if I had been transported back to 1958. Of
course I remember little of the park from the last time I saw it,
especially how incredibly huge it was: Minnesota's oldest state park
(established in 1891), Itasca has more than 100 lakes and is just
shy of 33,000 acres in size! And things are now likely much
different from the way they would have appeared in 1958.
 Of
course, my underlying motive was that I wanted to see the spot and
the rocks on which I stood so many years ago. I also wanted to find
the teepee (would an Indian Chief still be there as he was so many
years ago?) and the sign in front of which I posed with my sister,
parents and grandmother. It said: "In baseball, as in life, it's the
number of times you reach home safely that counts." To my chagrin,
the teepee was long gone, the original gift shop was but a pile of
decaying logs and the Indian Chief was nowhere to be found.
Disappointingly, the sign was gone as well, and a very old
photograph documenting that day is all that remains now.
 The
stones across the Mississippi were however, still in place. I stood
upon them once again, trying to remember that long-ago day with my
sister standing next to me. I was indifferent as to whether or not
they were the exact same stones but somehow I felt they had to be...
Heidi snapped numerous photos to record the event and we headed back
to the car, past increasing throngs of families headed to the same
spot for what I hoped were similar reasons that my father had
brought us there so long ago. There was now a new and much larger
gift shop chock full of souvenirs and trinkets, but no peace-pipes
were to be found. A helpful employee who remembered well the "old"
park, told me of the "improvements" to the park and how the Chief
(he now had a name: Ben Littlecreek) had gone the way of the teepee,
the sign and the old gift shop. The new memories did not replace the
old ones; they simply enhanced them.
 Interestingly, I am now fascinated by things --
like the history and geology of the park -- that I had little use
for as a young boy; much more so than my father would ever have
believed. But after all, what eight-year-old is interested in
Geology, geography and history? I just wanted to go swimming and
fishing!
The history of the park is incredibly interesting:
landscaped by ancient glaciers that advanced into the area, dates
back some 8,000 years to the early Indian hunters there who counted
on the bison, deer and moose in the area as a source of food. The
headwaters of the Mississippi were discovered by an American
explorer --
Henry Rowe Schoolcraft -- in 1832 when he was led there by an
Anishinabe Indian guide. You would have to see the area in person to
get a sense of how difficult the journey must have been, especially
back then (it's pretty remote, even today). In the late 1800s, it
was the tireless efforts of Jacob V. Brower to save the incredible
pine forests from intensified logging in the area that eventually
led to the establishment of the park.
 We had checked out the new Visitor Center, driven
around the road the circles Lake Itasca, stood where I had stood and
visited the gift shop. Somehow I just could not bring myself to stay
for lunch in the modern, new restaurant. Don't get me wrong. Itasca
is a beautiful resource and I highly recommend a visit to it if you
are anywhere in the vicinity. For some reason -- on this particular
day anyway -- I just preferred to remember the park as it appeared
to me in 1958.
As an interesting footnote, we had been to the
mouth of the
Mississippi in New Orleans in March (oddly, only a day
after my father's birthday), and now, less than three months later,
I had stood at the source of the very same river, some 2550 miles
away!
 A trip back to
Bemidji was also a must, as it was
there that I caught my first -- and never-to-be-forgotten -- glimpse
of a giant Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox, both standing watch on
the shores of Bemidji Lake. They were beautifully painted with what
appeared to be a fresh coat of blue (for the ox and Paul's pants)
and red/black check for Paul's shirt. Even as a grown adult, the
towering statues were as big as I had remembered. This was also the
lake over which I took my first float-plane ride and on which I took
a small paddle-boat ride with my sister. She will never forgive me
for allowing her to do most of the work paddling the device... Great
shopping, dining and lodging abound; just don't forget about all of
the excellent spots on the lake to try for walleye, northern pike
and musky!
 We enjoyed a night at the
Hampton Inn & Suites there and dinner
at the Green Mill restaurant, where I think I spent more time
reminiscing about those early years and adventures than anything
else. The town, much like Itasca State Park, was newer and bigger;
the roads were wider and there were more places to shop, stay and
dine. The kid in me wanted things to be the way they were... I fell
asleep knowing that wasn't possible, my dreams that night told me
otherwise.
From there and back in Walker once again -- the
weather did not cooperate as fully as I had hoped, making fishing
difficult. But for the first time back on Leech Lake in many
years (I had actually been in a boat with my parents there when I
was two years old), we didn't do all that badly, able to catch some
fish and eat some for dinner, too. (The champ was a 25-inch walleye
that was just less than legal size and had to be released.) We
definitely had a lot of fun!
 All too soon, the trip was at its end; it was time
to return home to where numerous responsibilities were waiting. For
many, six hundred miles seems like a long way to go for a summer
trip. My father drove it every summer for many years -- until both
my sister and I were at the point where we had too many school
activities in which we were involved and those trips came to a
screeching halt. Back then there were no Interstate highways and the
trip must have taken way longer than it does today.
But I know that my parents always felt those trips were worth the
time and energy. And of course no matter we journeyed, my father
always wanted to add those extra and "educational" side trips, the
ones that finally -- many years later -- had their desired impact on
me.
 Minnesota does have its 10,000 lakes. They are all
filled with various species of fish, and the forests that surround
the pristine waters are filled with abundant and beautiful wildlife
many who have never experienced often take for granted. There are
countless small towns with some of the friendliest people I have
met. But for me, Minnesota is so much more than just 10,000 lakes.
It is a lifetime of memories from both the past and the present.
Likely there will be future memories as well; Heidi and I make new
ones every day. Thanks, Mom and Dad, for providing those memories --
the ones that make me smile, love and appreciate what you have done
for me. Neither you nor I knew back then what a great gift you would
bestow upon me: curiosity and a desire to learn more about, explore
and enjoy the world in which I live. I love you guys!
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