One More Year on the Jersey

 

I was lucky enough to have this article published in In Fisherman magazine in the Reflections column. It is my reflection back on fishing trips with my dad over the past 30 or so years. I wanted to post this here because I know it has resonated with many people that have shared similar experiences. 

One More Year On The Jersey

 The Jersey City Flowage is a 400+ acre lake near Tomahawk, WI that is nestled between two larger impoundments on the Wisconsin River system.  It is a shallow weedy lake that is filled with fish that have been the objects of my pursuit for over 30 years. I always thought that the Jersey City Flowage was an odd name for a Northwoods lake. The first time I heard it I envisioned an urban New Jersey river surrounded by concrete and urban decay.  I am told it was given that name as there used to be a high population of Jersey cows in the area. I am not sure if that is factual or another little bit of Northwoods lore.  Whatever the reason for the name, it is one of my favorite places on earth and every time I am there I feel an optimism and peace that becomes harder to track down in my day to day life. 

On this lake sat Duck Point Resort.  Built on the sandy and boggy shores of the flowage in the 1930s the resort saw it’s heyday in the 1960s and 1970s as families from all around the Midwest found their way to the Northwoods for some fishing and relaxing in the cool summer sun of northern Wisconsin.  The resort sat at the end of a sandy road that was cut through the dense Wisconsin pine. It was populated by nearly two dozen brown and yellow cabins with pine paneling and views of the lake. A small TV that really only received the Rhinelander NBC affiliate was there, but rarely turned on. Usually we only watched the local news to get a sense of the weather for the week.  Outside sat picnic tables and lounge chairs that were turned gray by the elements and were covered in green lichens. There were also rusty fire rings that have surely roasted many a smore and have heard the hearty laughter and joy of the fish story from the day. Down by the shore of each cabin was a small pine dock that occasionally succumbed to the ebb and flow of the long winter’s ice.   In Duck Point’s prime it housed a restaurant that was a draw for returning guests. It closed and was reborn decades later as the Happy Quacker. A cozy Northwoods bar that the  3^rd generation owners reopened as another source of income.  There was a tennis court and a playground. One of the original owners, prior to passing, stayed in a small  house on the grounds painting and selling beautiful pictures of native wildlife on birch wood and pine.  There was a small beach with the requisite pontoon swim raft and there was a small wooden fish cleaning house, but most importantly there are my memories.  

My entire family trekked up to northern Wisconsin in the late 80s or early 90s and I first stayed on the Flowage in the cabin called the Mallard. I recall my parents packed the mini-van as my sister and I sat excitedly waiting to hit the road.  Behind the van we towed a 14 foot Sea Nymph fishing boat named Sink or Swim. We were heading to the Northwoods much like my dad and his family did in the 60s.  When we arrived the peak “resort era” for the Tomahawk region was starting to decline. Families were no longer packing  into cars and heading north for a stay in a cabin. More often they flew south or west to one of the oceans or to explore the Disney parks, but for a few years the resort was always nearly full.  

We arrived and turned onto the sandy road filled with excitement. My dad would step out of the car and utter the words I would hear him say every year thereafter, “Boy that smell. If only they could put the smell of those pines in a can. I love it.”  We arrived to our cabin where we were greeted by knotty pine, a set of antlers and the pleasantly musty smell of an old Northwoods cabin by the lake.  We fished, made fires and watched water ski shows in town. We caught frogs and played with kids from other cabins and had the time of our lives.  We made memories that are forever etched in my brain like the initials I carved into the soft bark of the birch tree outside of the cabin. I cried when that first week was over and we had to head home. From that point on Duck Point and the Flowage were a part of me.   I can still see the silhouettes of my mom and sister highlighted by the glow of the camp fire as my dad and I headed across the lake after an evening of  fishing. I remember catching countless fish. I remember the time my Dad hooked my sister in the head with a big Rapala. I remember the sounds of loons and motoring out to see the eagle’s nest down by the narrows. I remember the first time I got to drive the boat. In my mind the ancient 9.9 Johnson motor could really fly and I felt like the king of the lake. There was a year when my Aunt and Uncle brought my cousins up and they stayed in the neighboring cabin. My cousin who occasionally joins us on the trip was impacted by this place as well. After a 20 year absence he was shocked to remember so many little details of the grounds.  I remember donut holes from Nelson’s Market and driving up to Paul Bunyan’s for breakfast. I remember Northwoods themed souvenirs that I could probably dig out of a box in the crawl space if I had the time. I remember once hearing a wolf howl.  I remember eating lunch every Friday at Schafer’s Wharf. I remember the cool fog rising off of the lake and the smell of outboard motor exhaust as we idled into our favorite weed bed. I remember the soft splash of a lure hitting the water, the pull of a feisty fish hitting a #5 Mepps. I remember once catching 3 muskies in 15 minutes. I remember the ones that got away. I remember the smell of burning pine logs.  I remember one of the last years my mom and sister went on the trip my Dad got a 25 pound musky that now sits above the tv in their living room as a symbolic reminder of one of the last trips the 4 of us took together.  I remember so many things.  

Over time attendance at Duck Point began to wane, aging owners and unfortunate illnesses allowed Duck Point to become even more rustic.   Like many resorts in the area Duck Point fell victim to time and changing vacation culture.  My mom and sister eventually opted out as the cabins were beginning to quickly age and become less than a treat to spend a week in, especially if you did not enjoy fishing.  It was at that time my Dad and I began what has been a decades old tradition of staying and fishing on the flowage.  We moved on to a few cabins, but at some point the East Ruddy duck became our base for chasing the fish of the flowage. We would wake early and fish for 4 or so hours and then come in for bacon, eggs and fried potatoes. We would sit and enjoy the solitude of the lake and eat a big meal before heading out in the afternoon to fish until dark. We then would sit by a fire and listen to the haunting cry of the resident loons. We would talk about life and plans for the next day’s fishing.  We might stroll to the dock and marvel at the thick blanket of stars you can’t see in the Chicago metropolitan area.  Over time these traditions never changed. With an almost religious fervor we were like monks committed to our yearly traditions. I know now we did this to attempt to stop time from washing away the memories that we hold so dear.  Some of the places I mentioned have gone or changed names, but Duck Point and the tradition remained. A relaxing beacon to recharge and reconnect. A place that afforded the opportunity to hit the pause button on life and find something that is lost in the chaos of life today, even if only for a few days.  

Time raced by like the current beneath the Bradley dam, but despite the churn of time we always made sure to return to the Jersey.   Frozen in time, Duck Point remained the same on the surface.  For years the only real difference was that we got a new boat and the resort got emptier. There were years when we were the only people staying there for the week.  When I looked deeper as I recently strolled through the resort looking for kindling I noticed that nothing can stop time.  The playground was in the same spot as it was when we first came up, but it was rusty and unkempt. The beach became overgrown and the pine docks began to return to the earth.  The Mallard was now in disrepair and some cabins were starting to slowly rot away.  Even our usual cabin was showing age, but we continued on because of the fishing and because of what this place meant to us and the memories we held so dear. My Dad and I continued this tradition and only missed a few years when my Dad had a health scare.  The time ticked away and life became busier as I aged so now we talked about my kids, work, this crazy world and of course the hope that Duck Point would stay open so we could continue catching fish for years to come.  I started writing this to talk about the fishing, but realized that it was not about the fishing. We have caught thousands of fish. Some monsters and some laughably small fish.  I could tell you every spot we have ever caught a big one. I know every cabbage patch on that lake by heart and could probably fish it with my eyes closed.  The thing that brings me back every year is the feeling of comfort our little spot in the Northwoods brings.  

We just returned from our yearly trip. My Uncle and Cousin came this year. The first time we have all fished together in years. I noticed my Dad and Uncle moved a little slower and were not the young men of my memories. On the trip we learned that the owners would be going the route of so many mom and pop resorts in the area. They would be selling off the resort cabin by cabin and forming a condo association.  In the near future we and the handful of other devotees that make pilgrimages  year after year will have to find a new place, or hope one of the cabin owners rents out their place in the future.  We won’t have the money to buy an 80 year old cabin and rehab it from hundreds of miles away so we are left with our memories. Left to wonder where time goes and why the simple joys in life are the ones we are destined to lose.  Left to try to reconcile that the fact that I remember my first trip as a child as if it were yesterday, but somehow find myself decades older with two amazing children of my own. Two girls with whom my wife and I have begun creating our own memories. We are left to see the not so subtle parallels between ourselves and Duck Point. We realize that like this 80+ year old resort we too will eventually reach our end.  I am left picturing the loons cutting across the glasslike water cruising toward the sunset, and watching my Dad take in the scene. I make one more cast, hoping for one more fish, making one more memory and wishing for one more year on the Jersey