Blog

 

 

I’d like to think I’m pretty good at keeping confidential matters under wraps. But sometimes I’ve gone overboard and actually kept secrets from myself. That’s what happened with my marriage proposal to my wife DyAnne. I’d been moseying through our relationship for so long that the voices of the Universe basically had to club me over the head. Once I woke up, asking her to marry me carried such weight that I wasn’t going to let it slip by without some fanfare.

 

 

She was born with gifted intelligence not so much in a bookworm way, but more of a Hannibal Lecter way: she can peer into my soul and know she’s got me cornered. It’s helping shape me as her dad.

 

Her name is Mustang Sally and by definition she’s an Alaskan husky, a working dog. Through centuries of DNA, she was designed by nature to pull. It’s an attribute not always conducive to transforming a husky into a house dog. But her work includes a side gig.

 

 

My dad was director of outdoor recreation during a family camping trip when I was too young to understand what “laugh about it later” meant. At the time, I’m not sure Dad understood it either, but he was determined to show us the outdoor life. The guy took a beating in my behalf.

 

It began with marshmallow practice after our first breakfast. We’d be having s’mores throughout the week and he coached my sister and me on how to cook a perfectly toasted marshmallow.

 

 

Eight people stood on a wilderness overlook with their backs to the pristine lake below. Not one of them held a camera. They were seemingly oblivious to the glorious backdrop behind them. Instead, they gazed at renderings on a sheer cliff directly against the gravel road opposite the lake.

 

 

By the time I left high school, I had the remainder of my life pretty much mapped out. Consequently, I should have been inducted to the NHL Hall of Fame twenty years ago. Oddly enough, that career plan began to siderail the summer after high school graduation.

 

Throughout childhood, I dreamed of playing goalie. But these years later, I can see how my mom and dad were in cahoots to nudge me elsewhere.

 

 

 

My wife and I sat down in the backyard clutching two cans of perfectly frosted Hamm’s beer. For early June, the day was scorching hot. I had finished cutting our grass earlier and reached a good stopping point. All other yard chores would wait. We settled in for an evening of quiet inactivity and baseball on the radio.

 

No sooner had the cold sizzle of beer hit my throat, than our neighbor’s hired grasscutter fired up his supercharged ride’m lawnmower next door.

 

Its name is Buyck, an unincorporated hamlet in Northern Minnesota just a few miles southwest of Canada. Actually, if I trailed a deer there during hunting season, I could have unwittingly crossed the international border…with a loaded gun.

 

 

Benjamin Franklin once said, “Fish and visitors stink after three days.” But I’m guessing he’s never been to Ely, Minnesota. Ely’s economy thrives on inviting visitors to fish here for days on end.

 

In many tourist towns, the early season percolates with excitement. But depending on the town, Franklin’s quote becomes gospel as days wear on and the atmosphere turns ripe.

 

 

A carload of conniving faces made several slow passes up and down our block a few summers ago. They appeared transfixed on something in our neighbor’s yard across the street when our neighbor wasn’t home. Eventually, they crept to a stop, car doors opened and the pack stepped into broad daylight. The Georgia plates on the bumper belied the lone female passenger who spoke with the British accent. To watch them was to surmise furtive intent.