Patching Things Up with Dad

An Unforgettable Canoe Trip

I am writing a memoir based on my personal experiences. While this project is primarily for my children and grandchildren, I also want to share excerpts of the book, still in progress, with my Substack followers.

My dad was a tough old-school guy. He could be intimidating and domineering one moment, and your best friend the next. He believed in pulling yourself up by your bootstraps and working hard. During my rebellious teen years, we had our share of clashes and shouting matches. I tried in different ways to gain his approval, but that rarely happened. As a result, I avoided him as much as possible. He traveled a lot for business, and I was always more at ease when he was gone.

Later in life, we grew closer, probably because we both enjoyed a good scotch whiskey. When he was in his 70s and 80s, I would stop by once a week to talk (argue) politics and sports over a glass of scotch. We didn’t need to say it, but we both knew that the past was behind us. We were good.

I have some good memories from my youth spent with Dad. The most memorable time when we truly bonded was on an epic canoe expedition through the Boundary Waters of Minnesota and Canada. It was pure wilderness—no boat motors were allowed on the chain of lakes. We had to paddle our canoe across each lake and carry it over the portages.

The Boundary Waters are literally in the middle of nowhere. Two of my dad’s friends accompanied us on our expedition. My dad had been planning this trip for a long time, and I was finally old enough to go with him. We were up early every morning, paddling our canoes across the glassy lakes. The only sound was the occasional loon call.

The trails twisted and turned as we portaged between lakes. The canoe weighed only 60 lbs., but I was exhausted at the end of each day from carrying it on my shoulders for so long.

One afternoon, Dad and I were portaging the canoes and gear to the next lake when we reached a stream that would shorten our portage. The only problem was the stream had some wicked rapids. Dad looked at the stream and said, “We can do this!”

Dad had a look of determination on his face as we dropped the canoes and gear into the stream. He gave me some quick lessons in paddling around boulders, then, without hesitating, he headed straight for the rapids. My heart was racing as we navigated our way through the whitewater.

The current was strong, and it took all we had to keep upright as we raced down the stream. Suddenly, I felt a jolt. We had knocked against a big boulder in the rapids. I thought we were going to capsize, but Dad wasn’t rattled.

I wasn’t a novice at canoeing—I had earned a merit badge in canoeing as a Boy Scout. But Dad handled the canoe like he was driving in the Grand Prix.

“Paddle as hard and fast as you can on the left,” he shouted. We were flying down the rapids. Dad was paddling with precision in the stern, and I was waiting for his instructions at the bow as we neared each rock.

Then he would shout, “Paddle right!” before we hit a boulder. We would coast for a minute, and Dad would shout, “One more set of rocks coming up.” The rapids were merciless and unforgiving, but that didn't stop us from paddling furiously down the stream. After we made it through the rapids, my arms felt like jelly. I still don't know how we did it.

The journey was tough at times, especially when portaging through the wilderness without any trail markers. But seeing wildlife come alive in these untouched places was always worth it!

We canoed and portaged for three days to our destination. Each night, we would camp on an island. The Boundary Waters are filled with small islands in each lake. We brought some dehydrated meals and ate fresh walleye and bass we caught for breakfast and supper.

We didn’t see any humans until the third day when we canoed past a Girl Scout camp. They waved and shouted hello to us. They were excited to see other human beings in the wilderness. I was 16 at the time and would have been happy to stop for a visit, but to no avail.

After breakfast each morning, we would hop in the canoes and continue on our journey, stopping every so often to catch some fish for dinner. In the evening, we would set up camp and take a swim in the pristine lake. After a delicious fish dinner, I would listen to my dad and our two companions tell stories about the big fish that got away and other lies. I enjoyed seeing a side of my dad I hadn’t seen at home.

It was time to make the three-day trek back to civilization. We were both exhausted when we made it back, but it felt good because we accomplished our goal of canoeing and portaging across seven lakes and back.

That trip marked a turning point in my relationship with my dad. We still had our clashes and battles of wills, but Dad no longer treated me like a dumb kid. I think he was impressed that I could hang in there with him on our adventure.

I have long since gotten over any anger or resentment I felt toward my dad because of his harsh treatment of me as a child. I know he did his best to be a dad to six kids.

We talked about that trip many times over the years. It created a father-son bond that lasted through the decades. Dad passed away in 2017 at age 90. When I think of him and miss him, I often remember our adventure and smile. It’s a memory that will last until we meet again.