The season ending for me at home, nothing was more anticipated this winter than our traveling north to Nepigon for a final week of wilderness and fish. Friends Len, and Stevie Zebco were the two fellas who would complete our threesome. Up to the task of fishing Nepigon and other remote lakes in the area for lake trout, pike and walleye, we had our work cut out for us, and long days of travel to get there and back. I read once that adventure begins when something goes wrong; a witty and rather true statement, but I would think that adventure begins when a new idea seems so right to be planned, and the days finally arrive to begin living it out.
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ROAD RUNNERS.
We secured a cozy cabin in the woods. Our great host Rob, a long time fishing guide on softwater, admitted his expertise on the ice lay mainly with backwoods walleye fished by more traditional means. As forward as we were looking to fishing with him, he was looking forward to fishing with us. Something to be learned from each. Exchanging emails and calls after Christmas plans were set to stone.
We broke the drive up into two days. A midafternoon start placed us in Cochrane nearing midnight and after a solid nights sleep we were back on route for 9:00am the following morn. Arriving at Stevie Z’s in Mattice a couple hours up the road, he informed us that he would be coming a day late instead, so Len and I kept moving on. It seemed that so much good work had been done on Highway 11 over the past 4-5 years, many rough patches getting smoothed out. Unfortunately, this winter has not been kind, and although riding up in comfort, it felt like the drive was much bumpier than last summer’s trips.
Late day we found ourselves outside of Nepigon blazing a backroad trail in 4WD with the big rig. Len surely has his 2500HD GMC pimped out for hard running, and the 16,500 pound winch and spacious trailer is a solid insurance policy for our precious cargo. The truck hauled arse and sometimes it seemed like we weren’t pulling anything at all. A real beast this guy is on the road, doods be snapping photos of the grill in Timmies parking lots.
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The last hours were cautious, and beautiful. What we thought was a heavy snowfall year in Eastern Ontario paled in comparison to what would be waiting in the North. Not even in Attawapiskat and Moosonee over a decade could I remember this much fluff piled up. From Temagami across Cochrane, Hearst, Kap, Long Lac and beyond, it just seemed to get deeper and deeper with each mile. And as I said too, snowy and beautiful, especially the last leg.
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The cabin heat was cranked when we arrived. Rob’s father Wilf came by to say hello as Rob was out riding on his Skidoo. Inspecting our machines Wilf was quick to predict Len’s Outlander 1000 on tracks wouldn’t be going too far in the deep stuff. Judging that the powder in the yard was a high in places as we were tall, I half-heartedly agreed. Once Rob was back later on, Len put his beast to the test and sadly it failed. My thought was he’d somehow be okay and find a way, as his quad has to be the gnarliest and meanest on tracks I have ever seen. But, it was just too much weight and power for granular and powder snow, it spun and sunk itself in way too deeply everywhere it tried to go. It would be a big chore for Len this week.
In the cabin everything appeared more than perfect to make home, and so Len and I easily settled into relaxing the rest of our evening away. Already it felt like paradise.
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BIG THINGS & LING FLINGS.
Forecasted high of -5C with sun and little wind, when waking up I was raring to take off. Len having had a busier evening day before was chillin’ through breakfast so, I said my goodbye and made haste for the lake.
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The early air was cool but the morning ride exceptional. Stiff muscles loosened up while my head raced with thoughts of finding fish. The Bravo with it’s wide footprint and light weight seemed to have no troubles floating atop any deep snow, although until reaching the lake I remained mostly on any old trails previously packed.
Arriving on Nipigon a course was set to where I thought might be a good starting place. The lake so incredibly vast, a little intimidating, so uninhabited, so remote and exposed, it is truly an awesome force to be felt. Four years absent from having that same sense of winter wonder had passed since a last trip to such a place for ice fishing. Riding “out there” this first time gave goosebumps.
Drilling a hole I found myself atop the edge of an immense feeding flat which drops nearby to 110-200 feet in 270 degrees. With 50 feet below the sonar, the days warm sun on my shoulders, the world so quiet you could hear a pin drop, at 11:00am I plunked a lure into the depths.
An hour passed and nothing. Pulling a chicken wrap from my lunch bag and taking a couple bites, just then a first black bar appeared on the graph. Dancing the jig that bar turned blue, green, then yellow, then red and thickened right up just below my offering. When it moved upwards on the lure I began to run away and it followed, our pace quickening towards the surface. Not taking the lure I reached the hole and instantly dropped it straight back down to within 5-feet of bottom, the red bar in hot pursuit the whole way. Brakes on, quick jiggle, bar on me, I turned the lure around and started the race back to the top again, except this time within about 15-feet of reeling up quick, the laker caught up and nabbed the lure.
UN-BUDGE-ABLE! Setting the hook two maybe three times, the fish took a short quick run to start, then the laker just stopped still. I’d try to pull up but it wouldn’t move. When it had less tension it would barely swim either. Despite the odd head-shake that makes you think for a second that the fish was just lost, the first few minutes of the fight had me wondering how to break this brick out, knowing full well I had NEVER hooked into anything this big and heavy through the ice before.
When the fish started to finally swim there was just a slow, continuous pull at my drag that didn’t seem to want to end. Drag tightened right up, there were moments I had the butt of the rod in my belly and I was two-handing it with my thumb putting extra pressure on the spool. Business end was a 10-foot 15-pound floro leader to 15-pound braided mainline. This fish didn’t reach spooling me distance but, it seemed as though it had yet to show me at all what it was truly made of.
After some time I began taking line back one or two measly inches at a time. Guessing I would say after about 20 minutes, the fish came close to the hole, although I never saw the leader come up through the four feet of ice. When it appeared I was winning the fish decided then to slowly take back a tonne of distance on a long, continuous, pull away. When it finished, I resumed to inching the fish back again until finally bringing it to the hole.
Peering down I caught a quick glimpse of the lakers head through the ice. The side-profile etched in my brain, the face reached sideways from snout to cheek across the 10-inch hole as it was pressing up against the ice me hoping to turn it upwards. Just then the fish burped and screamed away, stealing 35-feet in a flash. One head-shake once it stopped, and my line went limp… Funny thing, I was barely phased by this outcome. Hardly disappointed. My watch said 12:38pm, and so I figured it to be a hard 30 minute battle which I merely lost. A fish that I hooked into though, in only an hour of being there.
The big laker at one point had a partner along side. Quick to regroup I dropped back down hoping for more, but no one came around. Another half hour or so passed before finally marking fish again, but these one’s were bottom huggers, grouped up and not overly interested in rising far for a lure. Pounding bottom seemed to get them worked up though, and while I guessed they might be whiteys drawn into the muck being stirred, I was abruptly proven wrong when one of them just hammered the hook. Geared for lakers, this fish came quick and rather effortlessly to the hole, and to my surprise I had just caught the biggest ling of my life. What a weird thing. Even worse, the jaws on these suckers clamp shut harder than a Bank vault.
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For the next 2 1/2 hours the ling kept coming. Stir the bottom, get ’em going and eventually you’d get thwacked! Picked up several more. Two lakers also came in together as well, both laying chase with one just missed as it sped after the lure to inches below the ice. Felt ‘er! Different baits made for no result with these two, and a solo laker also came by that was quick to figure me out and leave.
It was about 3:30pm when another solid red bar appeared from nowhere. The fish drawn in by a spoon stalked after it up and down the entire water column twice before vanishing. Switching to lighter gear I dropped a jig down to see if that’d work. While it fell the bar then appeared from above it and followed it to bottom. Stopping just shy of the muck with a quick wiggle until the laker caught up, I put the reel in 5th and shot it upwards, watching the laker take flight after it. Reaching the ice with no hit I dropped it like a stone for bottom again, laker in tow after it. Brakes, quick jiggle, laker caught up, put ‘er in high gear and go, but this time the lure only got about ten feet up from bottom before getting smashed. It was on!
Would like to paint this fight similar to the previous one but it wasn’t at all the same. Lighter rod, 8-pound main and ten lead, 500 series reel, I was getting tossed around from the get go as this laker was taking charge but never getting too crazy all at once. Head-shakes, hard-and-short rips, give-and-take, the fight was bouncy compared to the last but the rounds started to score my way. Using the lighter gear I’m more used to at home, this one was easily identified as one bigger fish, a PB beater I was quite certain. Yet still, it had about half the power on the fish I had lost earlier, yet it was more of a pleasurable and tactical fight; rather than me just being man-handled.
When finally it came up the hole I was impressed. What a sow I initially thought. Quick measure, weight and two photos and back she went kicking, no worse for wear. A first laker through the ice over twenty pounds and a new best. That’s why you do your homework, make a plan, drive the distance, and fish hard for the next big one. That’s rewarding fishing. First hours in, made every ounce of time and effort all worth it.
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Len and Rob never showed up. Had sort of expected they’d find me out there but, on route back to the cabin I instead saw them way off in some distance and rode over to see how things were going. For the fellas it was slow, and Len confessed that it was a gas-guzzling, sweat-burning exercise just to get out to where they were with the quad. While considering late afternoon options Stevie Z showed up after riding out onto the lake on his own, following the quads tracks. After a short visit on the ice he and I decided on what to do next back at the cabin, celebrate and enjoy the company with a drink, and fix my boots. Wilf dropped in so Aberfeldy came first… the boots, then dinner… followed by an all-out snore-fest through the night.
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ONE FOR TWO.
Stevie Z is always up for anything. Great energy and home-grown in the North, his trip objectives are to always have fun, complete any task, help out and keep a big smile on his face. Come morning at same pace he and I were ready to get away before the others, so we blazed out together into the frozen abyss.
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Day was a breezy one but expected to just hit temps in the plus. Able to sit outside and chat, and enjoy the warming air is a preferred way to ice fish. Steve’s late arrival and early departure meant we didn’t have as much time to hang out anyways, so we made the best of the good weather.
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Four lakers came in for a look this day. Two together and two loners. When first the pair showed up, we played a quick game of cat-and-mouse before I crossed the eyes on one fish. Steve came over to watch on as my rod was buckled a good three minutes, before the fish woke up and rolled off. Like the others so far it was another heavy weight. A more lazy solo fish came in later too but, it wasn’t hot for anything after some short flippins’.
Nearing end of day a fourth and final fish appeared on the graph. Spunky it jostled for position on the lure several times over but wouldn’t commit. Changing things up I plunged a hand-tied bucktail to the bottom, knocked a few times, lifted up and out of nowhere got blind-sided. A big fish in the teens, this guy had a tonne of spunk and burned rubber numerous times before wearing out. Two days, two great fish. Faaawk yes, this is Nepigon ice fishing!!!
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One for two and calling it a day shortly thereafter, Steve and I sampled the GlenDranoch back at the cabin. Hadn’t sipped on that malt since a week long canoe through Temagami in 01, a trip that ended on 9/11. Man that was a fish-less trip but intensely fun time.
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NORTH WIND SUCKS & BLOWS.
Most back lakes were an issue. No live or any organic bait allowed on the Nip there was a another particularly large body of water a good run from the cabin that is known to hold hordes of walleye and the odd giant pike. Fishing there we could all have a big meat spread while jiggin’ eyes. Problem being, there was no broken trail in and, it would be too long and maybe an impossible haul to make before sunset. Even with Len having traded out the quad to borrow one of Rob’s sleds at this point, had we been able to make it to the lake there would be one other substantial issue awaiting us. Slush. Pike fishing wasn’t to be.
On this morning the four of us decided on a long rip together to a bigger walleye lake. Rumor had it that this water also held an awesome population of lake trout as well, fish which were rarely if ever targeted, even though they are said to reach 20 to 30 pound sizes. Totally game for that! Afternoon trout and evening eyes sounded perfect to me. With high hopes we set out, remembering to stay together because if veering off the packed trail the snow might swallow you right up… as Steve demonstrates while “standing” in it.
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On the lake we all worked together to make swiss cheese of the ice we’d fish later on for walleye. Len and Rob were planning to set-up the Six Pack Clam, fish and chill, while Stevie Z and I were going to head up the lake. Great thing is, my handheld had the contour map and months ahead I had plotted a few points of interest on the PC from the comfort of home. Stevie in lead we took off up the long lake.
About half way on route I waved for Stevie to stop. Planning to get some GoPro footage of the ride, I stepped off the Bravo to retrieve my camera. Whoooosh! My foot pierced through the snows thin crust up to my knee and I stood a second in some cold slush below, right up over my boot. Instantly I was back on the snowmobile and Stevie observing it happen accelerated away to get off the danger spot. I was almost immediately on the throttle behind him but before either of us could make up any real speed Stevie’s machine bogged down just twenty or less feet in front of mine. He pinned his Renegade and managed to power out, leaving a mote of slush in my path. I was forced to veer hard right to avoid, and as I did the track at angle to the snow cut in easy through the surface crust. A quick turn back left and to straight ahead, parallel with his path, for a fraction of a second I thought I’d pull up and on top again once spinning that long track flat on the snow… but it didn’t work out. The Bravo buried itself in heavy shite, the deepest shite I’ve ever buried any sled in.
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Sitting with feet high and dry on the machine I watched as Stevie ran out, circled back behind and beyond, parking maybe 75 yards on our trail well before the slush. Reaching down and disconnecting my sleigh I pulled it up beside the Bravo and retrieved my shovel, camera and a bottle of water. First thing first I thought, I’d get the sleigh out of there and remove it from any “rescue later” equation. Running that sleigh out a little ways I didn’t get too far through the 14-inches or so of slush. Only got it back far enough and beside the snowmobile trail and left it there.
Stevie walked out a ways from his machine before the slush was near over his boots too. Kneeling down then, walking not on his knees or ankles but putting all weight on his shins, he managed the 30 yard shimmy to me. It worked mint, with the weight more greatly distributed we were able to move ahead together to the Bravo without getting our feet anymore wet. Once at the machine we could gingerly work this way around it as well.
On the Bravo I keep a milk crate with a pail in it tied to the cargo space on the back. Retrieving all that, I flipped them over to use them as stepping stones in the slush. Stevie and I first got to work digging the sled out, then on one side used some of that slush and any extra snow to pack a platform, together we lifted the back end up onto that.
Scraping out the track some more we then moved to the front of the machine. I lifted up while Stevie quickly pushed and packed snow under each ski. Before too long we had the Bravo sitting atop a wet snow and slush packed deck. Finally, while still walking around on our shins we began packing down a short eight to ten foot runway for the Bravo.
Fingers crossed we had but once chance, otherwise you’re stuck repeating the process ti’ll you’re out of the mess… however far and many times that might be. So, leaning back I gunned it off the runway and never looked in the rear. The Bravo flew off and kept atop the snow. Stevie crawled his way back to the sled, then while leaning his weight over it’s arse end was able to finish pushing it to a dryer place without breaking through the thin crust. Bum fudged a time we were, but clean out in under an hour without too much sweat. Reading this sounds rather wrong and it was, but Stevie Z and I seem to live for stuff like this… once is usually enough.
Possible helpful lessons learned… A) Pack stepping stones and a shovel with ya into uncharted places. B) Don’t stop behind the other rider, pull up beside and at decent distance away. C) Remember to run shorelines, crossing the lake at narrower spots, not it’s belly if you can avoid it. Don’t be a dummie and ride right up the middle like we did.
Had I been alone my feet would have been much more wet, my time tripled, and my heart rate that much higher. Although, had I for some reason just possibly stopped there at that spot without any rider ahead of me, the Bravo may never have even bogged down to begin with. A reliable long track machine, that despite it’s lack of speed and power, makes up for things with simple, good design.
We didn’t fish lakers that afternoon. Wet toes we just kept to fishing eyes with little risk. Len and Rob went out for a ride though, and boy did Lenny bury himself to machine near vertical in some human high powder.
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Starving we ate our lunches and almost immediately our dinners too. The Coleman stove on the ice with us, in the comfort of the Six Pack we cooked up some hot and hearty bowls of chili and cracked a pint. The evening air began to cool quick once the sun started to settle, and mackeral skies rolled in overhead at dusk. The walleye bite was terrible and maybe live minnows could have helped, as the buggers did manage to steal some deads from our hooks. No fish caught but couldn’t care less, weather obviously moving in too. I knew wet but warm feet, good company, another great northern sunset, a dark ride back to the cabin and three fingers of Tomatin, was happiness enough this day.
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TUNDRA FEEL.
The Arctic air certainly moved in overnight. Gone was the plus, welcome to the minus. Expected high -9C with some gnarly N.W. wind, Stevie and I left ahead of Len and Rob and had our huts set up hours before the boys arrived. Fishing in the meantime was rather sloooow, with Stevie sighting a laker and plucking one whitey.
Soon after lunch both of us were visited by some ling. These things to me are just cool, and I believe it was maybe some Norse-Christian sort of legend I read which once stated… [i]and so it was said, that on the 8th Day the Devil came onto earth and picked up all the remaining pieces of animals the Lord had not used in creation. In his hands he then spit before kneading & moulding the ling. A creature which would only live and feed in the frigid darkness of the deepest depths, procreating in the harsh dead of winter.[/i] Well, Stevie and I each found one of Satan’s monsters, and mine just happened to be an 11 pounder.
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Once Rob and Len arrived they too got in on the ling fling, but the lakers remained elusive. Two came in on my sonar all day. I can confidently say that fish which move or chase at high speeds on the graph, can freely go from 50 to 0 fow and/or are often showing as immense red bars, that they are in all likelihood lake trout The ling, the whiteys and even something else faster moving than the two which stayed and played a long time but only worked within a 30 to 10 fow range over 60, well again, the rest of the rockets were likely to be lakers.
Stevie’s last day it was so we took a leisurely ride off the lake. Well, I did, while he powered through drifts and blew donuts all over the place.
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Fajita night in the cabin followed by Stevie’s sampling of his choice scotch, the GlenGarioch swallowed down smooth.
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SHOAL TRAIN.
Rob’s 800 Summit, Len riding Rob’s other sled a 600 Renegade Back Country, Stevie’s 600 Renegade and my 250 Bravo made up our awesome pack of mules. Seriously great sleds those CanAm Skidoos, I reminisced of the days running my own 600 Renegade so freely over the frozen tiaga in James Bay.
Stevie Z packed up early and left. On his way out the door at 7:15am he gave me a big old hug and said, “it’s -34C.” Decidedly I tucked deeper into my sleeping bag.
When finally awake and moving I was set to take off with Len but he needed a little more time to collect himself. The quad not in action and no tow-bar for his 2-man Clam, Len had been forced to set-up the Six Pack each time out on the ice. A fortress the thing is, but with all his gear, gear for Rob, two heaters, big propane cylinders, and the work that entails, Len surely was tuckered out more than anyone after each day. Heck, to secure the thing in a wind, dig a comfortable area into the snow to fit it, drill four holes through four feet of ice each time out, I swear Len put as much time into getting ready to fish as he did actual time fishing. Not having those issues myself, packing light and only using a 2-man InstaShak, the time spent jiggin’ grossly outweighed any time spent riggin’.
This day I punched a bunch of extra holes seeking out the edge of a long underwater point leading out to a sharp drop. I could move 50 meters, shovel down through two feet of hard-pack, drill 40+ inches and find the same depths over and over again in this vast area. Finally after so many attempts I figured to be close enough, so I dug out the snow for the Shak and set-up shop.
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From noon ti’ll 3:30pm I did not see one fish. Swing and a miss is what it was. Maybe the big cold front played a role in keeping the fish down, maybe the choice spot just sucked.
It was around 2:00pm when Len arrived to say hello. He was off to another area a few kilometers away which we had talked about the night before. After a little more time I packed up and drove over to his camp. He had dug out a spot for the Clam over 45 fow off an island point. Curious I drilled all around him to find that in 270 degrees just a long snowballs throw in any direction except the island, the lake fell off into 100 fow or more.
It seemed like a decent spot to try, though done for the day I instead just dug out my own 8X8 square, punched a hole, and allowed for 3-inches of water to freeze up a nice dance floor overnight. A solid and dry foundation to return to come next morning.
For the meantime that evening, I relaxed in the comfort and company of the Six Pack with Len, enjoying the heat, some dinner and a coffee. The sun beginning to set we puttered around a little before taking off on the long ride back. It was a good day despite being skunked.
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BUZZER P-BEATER.
Rode out solo on another cold and blustery morn. The dance floor was frozen up perfectly, it was a wise choice to set-up night before and minimize any early sweat. Axe out hole, drop Shak in, fire up heat and quickly insulate with snow, in no time I was comfy.
Right off the hop fish were being marked. Pretty well all small bottom dwellers, maybe whiteys, ciscoes, smelt… dunno? At one point a cloud of baitfish twenty feet deep moved through, and I hoped there may be some lakers leading that school. No luck. When Len and Rob arrived awhile later, Len quickly relayed he was marking bottom fish too, but no takers. Had I packed for whiteys, this whole trip may have been a solid slayfest from the start, but taking time from jiggin’ juggertouts wasn’t an option.
Late afternoon I moved to a different area and set-up again. About fifteen minutes in and while fiddling with the heater, I unexpectedly got nailed. I heaved some hooksets in to be sure and with some good reel peel following, it felt great to be back on the board. Pretty well from the start I was guessing this was my smallest laker of the trip, and as it turned out, I was right. Thing is, by no means back home do we call quality greys like this, “small.”
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That’s laker fishing on Nepigon I figured. Somewhere on the lake there has to be bigger populations of fish, and places that smaller trout can be found. This area didn’t seem to be that place. Very few fish marked for the hours put in, what I thought to be perfect were the sizes of the ones actually seen and hooked. Caught or not, these greys were all tanks so far. My belief had been that though, since even before embarking on the trip. The mindset was I wanted to hunt big lake trout, and like muskie fishing, that meant putting in big time for the odd chance of big reward.
Steak dinner back at the cabin that evening, Rob stayed awhile to visit like he always did. Having his company, hearing his Northern-life stories, and sharing the experience was truly enjoyed by Len and I. His generosity too, did not go uncompensated. Rob was taking in a different kind of fishing for him, I think for the very first time. Pop-up and flip-over huts, newer gear, electronics dialed in for ice fishing, we weren’t surprised next day when Rob confessed he had just ordered up a new Otter hut and will be picking up a flasher in short time.
Good laughs before bed and prior to heading off Len kindly let me use the SAT phone to call my father to wish him a Happy 65th Birthday. Another good day.
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WHITE OUT.
Rob was taking the day off to drive to Thunder Bay. Len was completely drained from the week and decidedly stayed in for the day to recoup. I had left the Shak on the ice overnight and was ready to put in one last great effort to catch a biggun, so off I went.
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Far out on the lake the morning started with white-out snow squalls but as the day progressed the climate calmed and warmed some, ending up quite nice. I tucked into the heat of hut for the first several hours though, hoping to catch something on the final day.
From 10:00am ti’ll 2:00pm I saw nothing. Not a suspected whitey, not a ling dinger, not a trout. Nothing. Stared at a blank sonar for four hours before the first lake trout came in slow and played slow over and over again with three different baits, not taking anything. That fish disappeared. An hour or so later another fish came by. It grew from a tiny black signal to a red bar then gone within about twenty seconds. Two more hours of a blank screen followed. I was outside by this time for the heater and action were making me drowsy.
Around dinner now and thinking of packing it in, a bar at five feet from bottom showed up. I was jiggin’ bout fifteen over it. She grew to a red rage rather quick and swam up onto the lure in a kinda slow but fast enough manner. Just as it was almost there I switched to a brief wiggle and eased into the ascent. She followed and together we built up speed ti’ll I hit the surface ice and had to drop. Opening the bale it flew straight down and the laker went after it with a vengeance, tailing it the whole way. A terrified lure thumped bottom and I ripped it once before screaming her upwards again. BOOM, BOOM, KABOOM!!! Set not once or twice, but made it count thrice. Two bars collide!
The laker’s back-to-back first and second runs were unholy. Stay on the knees praying or stand up and fight? On the feet this one had me once again sticking the butt into my tubby cheese-locker, double-fisting the cork and thumbing the spool of hope. Had learned already not to loosen up on these heathens, yet with the drag tight and me adding some extra, gnashing the teeth I was staring down at the last few wraps of PowerPro lying over some old 10-pound B-XT. Thank God the fish took a sabbatical just then….
Some vertical play that paid.
This Cracken must have seen Medussa’s head at the end of my rope for it was really quick to scare. After the big tsunami run it mellowed out slow like calming ocean tides. Wave after wave we closed the distance and before long I was reaching down the hole for the clench. Gotchya! Just as the lure falls out of it’s lip.
Keeping the fish in the water while lying on my side on the ice, I readied the tools and set-up my camera for a timer shot. Fish out, first pic, snap! Back in the hole, set timer, fish out, second pic, snap! Fish to the ice for the tape, down the hole easy and done. Couldn’t have scripted it all any better, a new personal best laker iced.
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A good time to end things, I got packed up quick and headed for home. The Nip never ever ceases to amaze me.
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If reading guys, thank you Rob for your awesome hospitality, generosity and company, look forward to our next time. Stevie Z for your friendship and making those odd impossibles possible over the years… those “times when the wrongs happen and the adventure really starts.” And Len, for happily slogging it out with me on this long haul, wanting to experience this trip, and providing all you did to make it happen.
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Bunk
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