The outdoors creates memories a youngster will always hold dear

Howard and I held the canoe in place, while Jeff and his 11-year-old son Richard shoved off from the rocky shoreline.

A half-dozen tiny, bite-a-chunk horrificus were dining on my right wrist. These were the blood- and fresh-meat-starved, ubiquitous black flies that make up the main elements of the Canadian Air Force.

With only one mission to accomplish, these reckless kamikaze bugs can and often do make a bush outing miserable.

I swatted the little buggers away from the dining table and started paddling across the lake to our first campsite.

Jeff and Richard decided to join Howard and myself on this smallmouth expedition to the Quetico Provincial Park in northern Ontario.

The endless stretches of pristine water and rock bluffs repeatedly elicited comments from young Richard like, "Wow, look at that loon over there," or, "When will we get to the campsite?"

Richard had never been this far north. In fact, his last fishing adventure had been to the Kankakee River with his dad as they floated along catching smallies on a warm, summer day.

The Quetico is a special place for me in that when I lived in a Minneapolis suburb I would make a point of heading north at least once a month to escape the grind of a heavy work schedule while sampling some of the best outdoor experiences available.

It took us a little more than an hour to canoe our way to the camp location. The two tents went up in a flash so we could spend most of our time searching for the bass.

Jeff and Richard went in one direction, while Howard and I gleefully glided along, carried by a slight breeze.

I turned around and saw that Richard was battling a fish. I couldn't tell if it was a bruiser or a "minnow," but Richard's vocal appreciation indicated it didn't matter. He was off to a grand start.

Howard and I caught a dozen smallmouth in just more than an hour-and-a-half. Jeff took his son farther down the lake, where they threw small spinners into a rocky area at the bottom end of a waterfall.

"I got another one," Richard yelled as he hoisted the fish into his canoe. "Dad says this one's a lake trout."

And so it went for four days nonstop, catching and releasing the bounty from an area that once held promise of northern passage for ancient explorers and natives alike.

The four of us would sit by the campfire at night, sharing lies about previous trips and monster fish we supposedly had caught.

Our meals were basic - just right, that is, for a young lad whose tastes ran to the likes of franks and beans or salami sandwiches.

Quetico is really not the place to sup on what one catches. The shore lunch would wait until we crossed the border back into Minnesota.

Sleep came easily for young Richard. We knew he would melt into his sleeping bag because this lad worked his tail off catching fish and reveling in his newly acquired skills as a novice outdoorsman. I had been there myself decades ago as well.

The three adults stayed up late sipping coffee and snacking on venison jerky.

"Rich was eager to pull his weight on this trip," Jeff said. "I tried for a couple years to have him go along with me on various fishing outings, but he always seemed to avoid making a commitment.

"And when he agreed to make this trip, I was ecstatic because I know he'll never forget it and probably want to now go on others with me."

A year after that wonderful trip, I received a phone call from Jeff's wife telling me Jeff had a major heart attack and passed away. I was shaken by the message.

Another year went by when I got a letter in the mail from Richard telling me he felt he was fortunate to have taken his father up on the offer of a wilderness fishing and camping trip. And if there was room for him on the next one, he'd like to tag along.

Without hesitating, I said, "You're in, pal. Get your gear ready."

angler@mikejacksonoutdoors.com