Oh, what fun we’re having Up here. Up, because for some reason North has been designated Up and South is not Up. South is down there, and references to it are often associated with a measure of snootiness, as if the people down there, South of us, are in some way beneath those of us Up here, in the north woods.
We left Minneapolis and drove to Wausau, WI where we dropped the rental and hooked up with my brother who’d driven up from Madison. We drove the remainder of the way with him to Up here. Up here being Lake Buckatabon, ~15 miles north of Eagle River, WI. First things first. We stopped at the Pick ‘n Save — which was half right — to purchase certain victuals and other sundries of consumption that a forward-thinking phone call to those already assembled at the resort indicated we were still in need of. Ice, drink mix, Lipton Ice tea (diet plz), swimming goggles for the nephew, and, I thought, why not:
Remove bladder of green juice from the bucket, open and decant back into bucket, add 750 mL of tequila (750 being a guideline not a hard ‘n fast rule) and chill. Whata country!
I’d forgotten how violent the thunderstorms Up here can be. These weatherly events are virtually unknown in Anchorage so it was kinda fun. On nights one and two the sky became a contorted fist of blue and purple, lightening and thunder could be seen/heard in the distance. We could almost literally feel the storm approach us, the air got heavy and if one could say you can smell rain, well, we smelled the rain a comin’. By the time we went to bed it was right over us, the first strike of lightening lit up our dark bedroom and like children we counted, one thousand one, one thousand two… and then that incomparable crack of thunder shook the land and everything grounded to it. It felt like it was a mere ten feet above our cabin.
By morning the storm has passed and the day is halcyon once again. We fish from the pontoon boat but so far nothing more than sunfish and a few small largemouth bass have been raised from the deep. (Which is bigger: a small largemouth or a large smallmouth?). In any case, insufficient fishage to merit a visit to the “Liar’s Shack”, that small shed on the property where fish of exaggerated proportion are quickly eviscerated before the truth can be independently established.
Happy Wife captured in what may have been an act of ambiguous direction giving to the helmsman:
And so it is we swim in the shallows, kayak to the far reaches of the lake, relax and reminisce, each of us enjoying the day in their preferred way. And when the mood strikes us there’s always BigBucket, chillin’ in the fridge.