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- Prostaff Member Trout Whisperer
So you’ve spent some time paddling in the Superior National Forest. You have your favorite campsite, the portage that's real easy or very scenic. The spot you saw your first moose. That piece of water no matter what the weather or time of year that gives up the walleyes every time. Maybe a view from a hilltop that puts a little hitch in your giddy up and if you time the trip just right you get a handful of fat plump blueberries.
You know those places that nobody else ever seems to be at. Those places we decide are our favs. Well I’m wondering what the most popular island in the bwca is. It has to be a named mapped island. Not some rock you dubbed or scrubbed your muddy boots.
Does the island have a special lightning struck pine, a soft sandy beach for taking a nighttime dip? Is this the piece of earth stuck out of all that blue you cant wait to get to because you can rest those sore arms after an all day workout. Do the breezes always keep the Skeeters at bay? Does that little or big hump of dirt rising out of the water collect the best driftwood.
I have mine; even the name makes me smile, I try to go there at least once a year. It's a tough choice to decide, spring or fall, so over the last few years I made it a fall trek. From the put in, I have to paddle several lakes, travel two aggressive portages of a Â¼ mile up and down the hills. There not back breakers, more like deal makers in that once I’m done with the last one, which is the worst one, I can just see the tip of my little piece of real-estate I retreat to. If I’m late enough in the fall, the one and only one tamarack tree with all its golden needles draws me like the bluebills that roar past it, only I park on it.
Doesn't make a hoot of difference which way the winds blowing, it always has its lee side to drift in and enjoy a soft landing. At night the walleyes shimmer right up to the shore and if I’m lucky, early mornings off the pine studded point it can deliver some real slab sized crappies with nothing fancier than a dime sized bobber plopped out next to a relic birch tipped over into the lake.
It has mossy spots for napping, the biggest downed log for leaning into to rest those hot hooves of mine. And right smack dab in the center of the island is the flat spot, the sweet spot, for just one tent. You can lay there at night and star gaze until your eyes give up, or just listen to the waves lapping. If I haul my canoe up, keep the campfire wee in size, well nobody even knows I’m there. So if you see some loner, all alone, on his outpost island, well you know which one is mine. The trout whisperer