“Medium black, please," I requested. 

The clock read 4:27 AM. Right on schedule. I was pulling out of Timmy’s parking lot and blowing the steam off of my second cup, just as my phone began to ring.

“Skipper!” Hawk says with excitement. "How are we doing?”

Few individuals possess the same level of enthusiasm in the wee early morning hours as Hawk. Whether we were overnighting it in a parking lot with the old Jeep Cherokee seats reclined (we never had enough cash to cover a couple nights at a hotel as teenagers chasing ducks) or heading out the door to hear that first gobble on a calm & cool spring morning. For as long as I can remember, Hawk would greet the day and whoever was going to share it with him- the same way every time: with pure energy.

Some things never change, I grin to myself before I reply. “We’re doing good, skipper. Right on track. You boys good?”

He fires back with a not-so-well-known reference used to describe that still-waking-up phase: “Oh buddy, we’re just turning on the wipers.

It was February in the Great White North, and every good Canuck, Minnesotan, or Cheese Head knows there isn’t much to do except watch & play hockey or jig for fish. Either way, both activities include ice, and that’s where we’d be spending our time for the next couple of days. Staked out on a foot and a half of hard water in hopes of some lakers. To some, that might sound cold, but with huts and heaters, you can be sitting in your t-shirt enjoying a beverage, thinking to yourself, "Does it get any better?" The short answer to that question, during this specific trip, was absolutely not.

“Here he comes! Reel, reel up!” BP urgently demands.

Watching the Marcum is more like playing a video game. Keeping a close eye on things as you desperately plead for a bite on the other end of your line through a 6-inch round hole. We’d miss this at-bat, but the next pitch would be a home run.

“Got 'em." BP says with some extra umph in his voice as he jolts the rod above his head and back down to his waist while reeling all in one swift, smooth motion. This would be repeated a few more times, batting. 1000 on every hookset since the first, for the next several hours. 

“Yesss. Thatta boy!” Schned shares his excitement and bends down beside Brandon, keeping a close eye on things as the fish begins to emerge from the deep, dark water. Like a team with a 1-0 lead late in the 3rd or a so-far-perfect ballgame in the bottom of the 9th. There is a collective, breathless moment where all eyes are on the goalie or the pitcher. Will he earn the shutout? Can he deliver a no-hitter? Few things in life are as rewarding yet simultaneously relieving as hauling a fish in and finally landing it.

And like every good day outdoors, there eventually comes a point where you must concede. The only guarantee is that the sun will set, and you can thank the good Lord above for another near-perfect set of breaths taken under His careful watch with good friends in His creation. Like most of the trips our gang is involved in, there’s a balanced, intentional effort to make things as good as they once were or better. The irony is that in order to hit the mark, you need things to happen way differently every time. Even though we find ourselves doing the same thing with a lot of the same people, I’m ok with that.

As we celebrate and take our first sips of cold Molson to throw a wrap-up on our “quick rip to the bay," plans for the second round hit the table at precisely the same time as our food. Based on the conditions and number of fish we landed, it doesn’t take long for the group to unanimously vote that we should head back to the same spot for the same time to achieve the same result: a memory full of lakers.