By Tom Cohen
Footsteps rustled through the pine needles in the shadowy chill before dawn. I hugged my pillow, a rolled-up sweater, and feigned deep sleep.
“Tom … Tom, are you up?” came an anxious whisper.
I barely opened one eye to see two legs like broomsticks rising from tennis shoes and floppy socks. Nestled in the malodorous warmth of my sleeping bag, I didn’t move.
“Tom?” the voice intruded. “Are we going fishing?”
It was the last day of our trip, which was the last of the summer. Next year I’d graduate from journalism school and embark on a career. The best job I’d ever have — leading wilderness canoe trips out of Camp Nebagamon, introducing city kids to self-reliance in pristine nature — was ending.
Bundled against the bracing cold of an August morning in the North Woods, I just wanted to sleep this final time. We had a long day ahead to reach our pick-up point. My shoulder ached. I was tired.
But I’d promised Michael Gordon, the fidgeting boy outside my tent, that we’d fish at sunrise. This was our final chance, and he was waiting for me.
It had been this way for two weeks, since the sign-up for the trip at camp. Michael was the first to write his name in the hurried scrawl of a 12-year-old. He stood before me, nose to navel, his worried brown eyes magnified by thick black glasses beneath straight black hair.
“Can we go fishing on this trip?” he asked, desperation filling the narrow face.
Sure, I had said. We’ll be in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area, some of the best fishing in the world. Northern pike, walleye, maybe even lake trout. Other kids were listening, and more added their names to the list. It would be a full trip.
Every day after that, it seemed, Michael would approach me, hesitating for a second or two before offering some fishing-related tidbit.
“I got some more lures,” he would say, and I would look at the skinny kid pleading for reassurance and respond, “That’s great,” or “I’m getting ready for some fine fishing myself.”
The day before we left, he came to the trip room where Alps and I were packing up supplies. I saw him standing outside the door, hands in his pockets.
“Hey, Michael, come on in,” I gestured. “You know Alps? He’s the other counselor on the trip.”
“Yeah, hi,” Michael said, shuffling a few steps through the door. I continued counting out cups, forks, and plates as he watched. Then he turned to Alps, inspired by the possibility of an ally.
“Do you like to fish?” he asked. Alps continued putting spaghetti into a ziplock bag, not looking up as he answered, “Nah, not that much.” He didn’t see Michael’s chest drop.
“You know what we can do?” I offered. “One morning, we’ll get up at dawn and go fishing before breakfast. Nothing like fresh fried fish for breakfast. I’m even packing some batter and eggs.”
Michael’s head flew up. “That would be great!” he said, a smile stretching past his ears. “I’ve never done that.”
Now on the sixth morning of the trip, it still hadn’t happened. The kids had cast their lines from our campsite a few times but caught little. Each night, Michael made sure to ask about getting up at first light to fish. There was always a reason to put it off — we had to break camp early the next morning, or we’d find better fishing later in the trip. He would shrug and look away.
His persistence, cute at first, became annoying. Around the campsite, his eyes followed me like a spotlight in a prison yard, and he dropped hints at any chance — just like I did at his age to wheedle my parents.
It rained on the fourth morning, but Michael showed up at my tent, water dripping off his poncho hood. I heard him but pretended to sleep, hardly breathing as he softly called my name. It’s pouring, I thought. What’s wrong with this kid?
“Not in the rain, Michael,” I finally whispered. After a pause, he turned to walk slowly back to his tent.
He was quiet that day and avoided eye contact. The other kids noticed and left him alone. After dinner, I found him washing the plates in a pot of water at a tree stump. The setting sun spread shadows across the campsite, and two loons broke the dusk silence with their calls.
He kept looking down as I kneeled at his side.
“Listen, Michael, we’re not going to be able to fish tomorrow morning because we’ve got a lot of ground to cover and we have to leave early,” I began, speaking slowly. He kept dipping plates in the water, his head not moving.
“I want to leave early because I think it might rain tomorrow afternoon,” I continued. “But I’m telling you now we’ll get up Friday and fish before breakfast.”
He looked up, not smiling but radiating expectation, and I heard myself saying, “I promise.”
His head nodded slowly. “Yeah,” he said, “that would be great.”
The next day passed with no mention of fishing. He had my word now. We covered almost 20 miles, crossing indigo lakes and portaging over root-gnarled trails as pillowy clouds floated past. Thunderheads building on the western horizon warned us to hurry to our campsite, and we barely managed to set up tents and cram gear under the canoes as the wind gusted and the first drops splattered.
After two hours of lightning flashes and thunder that shook the ground, we emerged into a calm dampness. The setting sun ignited a rainbow on the last of the storm clouds, and a family of ducks drifted among the reeds and lily pads. It took more time than usual to build a fire for dinner, and darkness fell as we finished. The sky had cleared, with a crescent moon in the East and Orion’s Belt sparkling overhead.
As I secured gear bags under the canoes for the night, a voice on my left said, “Looks like good weather.” Michael was standing there, hands jammed into his jacket.
“Yeah, sure does,” I said, trying to sound non-committal. Leave me alone, I thought. I told you we’d do it.
“Should I wake you up?” he asked, raising his head. He still didn’t believe it.
“Sure,” was all I said.
I remembered that moment as I peeked out from beneath my arm the next morning. His feet were still there, one pushed against the other like he had to pee. I hadn’t moved. The sleeping bag was so warm.
“It’s getting light,” he said. This was it. Any more delay and we would lose the chance to cast at sunrise. He wasn’t going away this time. I had promised. I sighed and rolled on my back. His legs calmed.
“How is it out there?” I whispered.
“It’s nice. A little cool,” he answered, and I heard him slap at a mosquito.
“Okay, I’ll be out in a minute,” I said. There was no turning back. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, then sat up while tensing against the chill invading my cocoon. Exhaling quickly and hunching my shoulders to fend off a shiver, I grabbed my pants and pulled them inside the bag to put them on. Next came the shirt and sweater, and then the socks, which had failed to dry on my chest during the night. As I turned to unzip the netting, I saw Michael’s feet had not budged.
It was still dark, though streaks of purple and red formed in the East. Our breathing and muffled footsteps made the only sounds, with Michael shadowing my every move. I said nothing.
We turned over a canoe and lowered it into the water. Michael secured it while I tossed in paddles and life vests, and then I held the canoe while he grabbed our rods and his small, brown tackle box.
The sky was turning a soft gray as we pushed into the water, sending tiny ripples across the glassy surface. I breathed deeply with the first strokes, feeling my eyes focus. A loon called from somewhere.
When we got away from the shore, I stopped paddling and reached for my rod. Michael looked back from the bow, his eyebrows questioning.
“Turn around,” I whispered loudly. “You face me and I’ll solo. We’ll cast out some big spoons and troll these bays.”
“I’ve never done that,” he said.
“You put on a big spoon and let out as much line as you can. Then we move slowly down the middle of the bay so it goes as deep as possible,” I explained.
His paddle clanked against the gunnel as he swung around to face me. I raised my finger to my lips to signal quiet. He was nervous, fumbling with the wire leader as he tried to clasp on the lure. One of the barbed hooks pierced his finger, but he just pulled it out and continued, saying nothing.
We cast off separate sides, and I began paddling. There was no breeze yet, and the water reflected the dawn sky, from orange tinges along the horizon to deep blue, purple, and black. Stars were still visible but fading, the moon long gone. Two ducks took off from the reeds to our right, their necks straining as they skimmed the surface.
Moving slowly through the deepest parts of the lake, we rounded tree-lined points and crossed bays as the sky brightened to gold and then the deep azure of a cloudless morning. We saw herons standing erect on fallen logs. In one bay, a beaver swam past with a branch in its mouth, heading to bolster its dam.
I took long, slow strokes, exaggerating the motion to feel my shoulders unwinding. The only sounds were my paddle breaking the surface and an occasional loon call. Michael sat backward in the bow seat, hunched forward with his legs crossed. He stared at his rod tip for any movement.
Time seemed to stand still, until a slight breeze stirred the water and filled our ears. The sun was up, shining with warmth, and flies began to buzz. Michael’s shoulders were sagging, his chin down near his chest, the fishing rod dangling off the side of the canoe. As we turned a corner, I could hear voices at the campsite at the far end of the bay.
“We’re going to have to head back,” I said as gently as I could. He looked up and nodded, then smiled. I smiled back. It had been a gorgeous sunrise and peaceful paddle. Such a perfect way to start the day, I thought, a real gift of nature. We should have done this before.
As we paddled, I was planning breakfast in my head when Michael’s rod jerked in his hands. He looked at me, and it took a moment before I asked, “You got something?”
“I don’t know,” he said, starting to reel in.
The rod tip bent and tugged. It was a fish. I jammed my paddle beneath the thwart and leaned forward as he hurriedly cranked the handle. But he was going too fast, yanking the rod up and down. His swaying torso caused the canoe to wobble, and I pushed my knees down to steady it.
“Take it easy,” I said. “Take your time.”
His face contorted as he struggled to turn the handle. I wanted to grab the rod from him.
“Just reel it in slowly,” I said, my voice sharper. “Take it easy. Just do it slowly.”
“I can’t!” he gasped. The rod bent sharply, and Michael’s elbows jammed into this stomach, his hands fumbling with the reel in front of his face. Now I was angry. He had begged me for this.
“Come on! Bring him in!” I shouted. “What are you doing?”
“I can’t! I can’t,” was all he could say.
“Reel him in!” I yelled, lunging for the rod. He shriveled back, his eyes locked on me, and I stopped. This was wrong. Why was I shouting?
For a few seconds, the only sound was the canoe rocking softly in the light chop. I could feel myself breathing.
“I’m sorry,” I finally said. “I shouldn’t be shouting.”
He still stared at me, saying nothing.
“Just take your time,” I urged. He sat up again and started reeling, slowly now, the handle turning evenly. The rod continued to dip and dance.
“That’s it,” I said. “Keep the rod tip up. Bring him in.”
We were looking over the side when we saw a flash in the water, then another. Suddenly it was on the surface, a silver brick of a fish almost two feet long.
“All right!” I yelled. “It’s a lake trout! Just look at that baby!”
Michael still held the rod up with both hands, his chest heaving and eyes crinkled. I crouched like a predator, adrenaline pumping, staring at the water. We had no net, and I’d lost too many fish trying to lift them out by the fishing line. We weren’t going to lose this one.
With a sudden surge, I reached over the gunnel to grab it with both hands, causing a splash and rocking the canoe dangerously. In one motion, I hauled the fish into the boat, where it landed with a thump and started flopping. Michael whooped with joy.
We stared at it and each other, then wordlessly grabbed our paddles and he turned around to face the front. As we stroked furiously toward the campsite, Michael kept looking back to make sure his fish was still there.
The other kids had noticed the commotion and ran down to meet us. Michael hopped out and secured the canoe as I grabbed the fish, again with both hands, and climbed past him. Someone had a stringer and we put the fish on it, surrounded by shouts and laughter. Michael held the fish out in front of him to make it look even bigger for a photo. The excited chatter continued as we made a fire to cook, with Michael retelling the story of his catch over and over. The ultimate wilderness breakfast of fresh fried trout never tasted better.
Then it was over. The rest of the day flew by as we paddled to our pickup point and waited for the camp van and trailer. When we got back to camp late that afternoon, the kids headed to their cabins, still jabbering about the fish.
Alps and I hauled the gear to the trip room to store it for the final time that summer. I went to the waterfront to put away the paddles and life jackets, which is where Rock found me. He was the trip director, and spoke only when necessary.
“How was the trip?” he asked, looking at his feet.
“It was great,” I said, telling him about the good weather and how the group worked well together. That usually was enough. This time, he continued.
“I hear Michael Gordon caught a fish,” he said. Yeah, I answered, a beauty. We had marked its length on one of the paddles and I showed Rock, who raised his eyebrows in appreciation.
“You know about Michael Gordon?” he asked, now looking at me.
“What do you mean?” I said. “He was a good kid, and he was really excited about catching that fish. He had been bugging me the whole time to go fishing, and we finally got up today and did it.”
Rock nodded. “Yeah, his dad was Gil Gordon, who was a camper here and remained a close friend of camp,” he began. “He always used to visit during post camp, and he loved fishing. You know that new fishing boat out there, The Keeper? Friends of Gil’s donated it to the camp.”
I followed Rock’s gaze across the water.
“Gil died in a house fire last year,” he said. “It was really sad.”
Now I looked down. “Wow, I didn’t know that,” was all I could offer, remembering those feet outside the tent.
I was walking to my cabin when Sally, one of the camp directors, came the other way.
“How was the trip?” she asked, her eyes meeting mine. There was more.
“It was great,” I answered, and waited.
“I hear Michael Gordon caught a fish,” she said, and I just nodded my head.
“You know about Michael Gordon?” she continued.
My voice barely above a whisper, I said, “I’m sure learning about him now.” All I could think about was a promise that almost got broken.
“We went to the funeral,” she said, shaking her head. “It was so sad. All he could do was walk around, asking over and over, ‘Who’s going to take me fishing?’”
Tom Cohen is a recovering journalist who constantly dreams of wilderness. After a two-decade career with The Associated Press, he has worked for Conservation International, CNN and the World Bank, and currently lives in Simon’s Town, South Africa, 20 minute’s walk from the penguins of Boulders Beach.