On the list of things you don't see in a big city, somewhere towards the top you might find "wild moose running down the street." Is it moose when its more than one? Mooses? Meese? I don't know pluralities but I do know this: when you see a wild moose running, well, wild, you get the hell out of the way.
I'm not what you'd call an outdoors guy. Among the evidence supporting this claim are several key facts: I don't do camping trips, I don't fish, I don't hunt, and I don't go boating. All of which make me guilty of being the polar opposite from your regular run of the mill Grizzy Adams type. Yet there I was, in the North Woods of Minnesota, just a few scant miles from Canada -- close enough that miles and kilometers were colliding, far enough that I couldn't quite throw a stone from one country to another. If you'll forgive me for using a bad pun, it was a fish out of water story.
Yeesh, I'm not sure I forgive even myself for that one. Ouch.
Needless to say, I was apprehensive about, well, just about everything to do with this trip. But as usual, I can find a way to make good times just about anywhere. Even in the middle of the north woods. After the jump...the trip.
***
Waking up before the crack of dawn on Thursday two weeks ago, I began the 13-1/2 hour drive alone, in the dark, just me and my Coke Zero. This was to be a reunion for old friends from back home; Four other guys were meeting me there, and I picked up two others who lived along my route which took me first through Des Moines, then through the Twin Cities, then St. Cloud and finally the northern reaches of the U.S.
Our cabin was situated on a majestic lake, and had lots of classic cabin qualities. From the Leinenkugel Beer neon sign in the window to the stuffed wildlife on the walls, this was exactly the sort of cabin you might see in a brochure. Wood paneling everywhere, bear skin rugs, deer antler chandeliers...well, you get the picture. Perhaps best of all, the people who where there before us were even kind enough to leave five cans of Molson in the fridge for us!
The first night, despite the exhaustion of the long drive, we sat around and played poker, which is certainly not an outdoor activity and as such, is something I'm familiar with. Drinking beer, smoking cigars, playing poker...now this is good times! Of course, my opinion may be slightly skewed by the fact that I won some decent coin...
Friday morning, we got up at dawn to go buy fishing tackle and beer, and headed out onto the lake to do some fishing. Now, I hadn't been fishing in over twenty years, so before the trip I had gone to Scheels in Omaha and enlisted the help of their friendly and knowledgeable experts in procuring a fishing rod. I spared no expense, getting copious amounts of gear, all of which supposedly would help me catch fish. Supposedly. I was dubious of my ability to do that, but if you're gonna fail, you might as well fail in style! That's my motto.
Turns out, fishing is really just an elaborate excuse to sit around and drink beer, with occasional moments of physical exertion mixed in to keep things interesting. Its a lot like golf in that way, actually. Both activities accomplish the same thing: getting away from wives and girlfriends to hang out with the guys and drink beer.
In case you're wondering, yes, I used live bait. If there's one thing I remember from my Indian Guides fishing trips that I wrote about earlier this week, its that those goofy plastic worms don't work at all. Fishes might not be the brightest species around, but they're smart enough to know not to eat a turquoise worm.
About an hour into our excursion, I got a nibble. Not a bite, mind you, because this fish was not big enough to bite. Just a nibble. Still, it was all very exciting, mostly because I managed to both spill my beer AND make a dramatic scene out of reeling in a tiny fish. It was all rather ridiculous.
Later in the morning, I got another fish of similar dimensions to bite (oh, sorry, NIBBLE), but I didn't replay the drama in reeling it in, because that wouldn't even have been funny to me a second time. Sadly, both fish were too small to keep and I had to throw 'em back. This was a damn shame, because it meant instead of gutting fish and grilling them out I would have to go into town to get a steak. Boo hoo.
***
I was hoping that our venture into the town would wind up like "The Great Outdoors". Pick your favorite scene from that movie, and I hoped it would happen. Would we meet an old guy who'd been struck by lightning 66 times? Would there be a steak house with "The Ol' 96er" on the menu? Would one of us waterski 60 MPH behind a speed boat? Would there be an A&W with a hot waitress that I could accidentally accost with a pool cue at the bar, rightfully earning a steely glare and harsh words, before later charming her into making out? Any or all of these things would have been dominant.
Instead, we got a wild moose running roughshod through the street. There's comedy, there's high comedy, and then there's sitting at the lounge drinking a Molson and eating a greasy plate of bacon while a moose comes running down the street. The damnedest thing was the locals barely noticed. It was like we were in Cicely Alaska on the set of Northern Exposure or something. Apparently moose in the street is commonplace. You bet.
When I mention eating plates of back bacon, its worth noting that this was an appetizer. In most places, appetizers are onion rings, cheese sticks, nachos, or bread. In the North Woods, appetizers are bacon, bacon and, um, bacon.
And while The Ol' 96er may not have been on the menu at the local restaurant and lounge, there was something called the "Paul Bunyan Steak", which was 36 ounces of beef with a side of potatoes. We took to calling it the Ol' 36er, and of course, I had to order it. Had to. There was no choice.
You really can't appreciate how big 36 ounces of beef is until its staring you in the face from your plate. Two pounds, Four ounces. Good lord! The first pound or so went down easy, but each subsequent bite got tougher and tougher until finally I had brief thoughts of giving up the fight. But then I remembered the words of Billy Joel, who once said "Hold on, til that old second wind comes along." Wise words from a a wise man. Eventually, I got the Ol' 36er down. Thank you, Billy Joel.
Predictably, I regretted this shortly thereafter, as my stomach started making sounds I'd only heard on Pink Floyd records. I probably took two years off my life that night. And for what? To prove I could eat The Ol' 36er? Yeah, you're right, it was worth it.
***
The only thing resembling a scene from The Great Outdoors was a band of raccoons rummaging though our trash. Learning my lesson from the movie, I did NOT combat this by putting rocks on the cans, because I knew this would only cause them to tip the cans over, making a bigger mess. You can learn a lot from John Candy movies.
All in all, my introduction to fresh Molson beer, back bacon and fishing was a helluva good time. I hadn't seen most of the guys since summers during college, so it was good to hang out and drink -- legally for once!
The final tally was seven cases of Molson, more greasy bacon than I can count, one 36 ounce steak, three fish too small to keep, and 26 hours of driving.
You bet.
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