North with Doc: Getting There

We were into the sixth hour of our annual drive north. We started in Des Moines at the crack of dawn, and without complications we would arrive at our Sioux Lookout hotel before dark.

I was using a tattered mesh scrubber with a flip side squeegee to smear insect goo around the van’s windshield.

“That really works well,” the policeman said, noisily sipping a Big Gulp as I tried to improve our visibility.

“You could do a better job with a paint roller,” the banker said.

“Your comments help a lot, guys,” I said.

The Minnesota insects were harder to remove than price sticker glue off a Christmas candle jar.

“Aunt Lucy would use a flame thrower to burn that slime off,” Doc said.

“No,” the kid said, “she’d just stick her head out the window like when it’s covered with ice.”

“And get her teeth full of bug parts,” the attorney said.

“Not that she has that many teeth to worry about,” Doc said.

“Point well taken,” the attorney said.

After what seemed like a million of these first week of June trips up to Knobby’s, none of us could recall when we didn’t have at least a little rain to keep the six-legged flying pests on the ground and off our window. What a mess.

“It stinks, too,” the kid said. “What is that? Dead fish and roadkill ‘possum?”

“Nailed it,” the policeman said. “With a sense of smell like that you could work in a perfume factory.”

“Or maybe hunt for truffles in Italy,” I said.

“I thought pigs did that,” the attorney said.

“They do in Italy,” I said. “Here, they run for Congress.”

“That’s casting a mighty wide net,” the attorney said.

“I call ‘em like I see ‘em,” I said.

The kid said, “Why don’t we get back on the road so we can do some of that casting about this time tomorrow?”

“This windshield is as good as it’s gonna get,” I said. “Let’s saddle up and ride.”

Stretched, pottied, thirst quenched, and gassed up, we climbed inside our overpacked 9-mile-per-gallon stagecoach, and buckled up. I started the engine, put ‘er in gear, and the banker said, “Wait a minute. Where’s Doc?”

I looked behind my driver’s seat and, sure enough, Doc wasn’t on board.

“He’s either somewhere having a smoke, or was kidnapped by those good old boys at the next pump who looked like they were in that Deliverance movie,” the banker said.

“I’ll pull over here and wait a while,” I said. “What shall we give him? Five minutes before we leave without him?”

When the snorts and snickers died down, there was a knee knock on the slider door, and Doc arrived with a double armful of sweet corn.

“Where’d you get that?” the kid said.

“Some guy selling his home-grown out the back of a pickup,” Doc said. “I figured it might go good with our mid-week burgers.”

“An excellent idea,” the attorney said. “And you asked if it could be taken into Canada, right?”

“That’s a thing?” Doc said.

“I know Mexico and even some states have cross-border restrictions on fresh vegetables,” I said. “Toss it in the back and if we see a pile of confiscated sweet corn at the border, we’ll know.”

The bugs continued their unrelenting splats on the glass, and using the washer was like spraying 90W gear lube on it. With every car and truck and motorhome in the same fix, I squinted my eyes for danger, and we kept a safe distance.

The banker decided salty snacks were in order, and opened a family size bag of sunflower seeds that exploded like it was pressurized. The rental company’s vacuum would be sucking seeds from under the seats for the next seven years.

The policeman was riding shotgun and ran through every radio station within range. We tried to listen to a series of rap tunes that sounded exactly alike, although the DJ said they were by different so-called artists, and all were multi-platinum sellers.

“Hey, kid,” I said. “Can you translate any of this for us?”

“What do you mean?”

“What are they saying?”

“You know. About life.”

“What about life?”

“How things are.”

“What things?”

“Pretty much everything.”

“But we don’t understand it,” Doc said.

“Poetry,” the kid said.

“Not like Mary had a little lamb.”

“Street poetry.”

“You ever lived on the street?”

“No, but I work with the city street crew and most everyone gets this.”

“Gets what?”

“How things are.”

“That again?”

“You need to listen.”

“I am listening,” Doc said, “and I think I’m detecting some pretty harsh language referring to the fair sex.”

“Wait,” the kid said. “The fair sex? Is that like at the State Fair?”

“I believe we have outlived our music,” the policeman said.

“When we were kids, the songs made sense,” the attorney said.

“None of this hand waving rat-a-tat junk,” Doc said.

“You got that right,” the banker said.

“I know. I know,” I said. “Like, ‘Who put the bomp in the bomp pah bomp pah bomp? Who put the ram in the rama lama ding dong?’ Now, that was real music.”

“You guys need therapy,” the kid said.

The policeman dialed up Rod Stewart belting out American standard jazz and pop tunes, and that seemed to satisfy us for 100 miles, although the kid either slept through it or had L’il Nas X and Megan Thee Stallion slammin’ on his Dr. Dre earbuds.

A few hours passed, the tank ran near dry, and we made another gas stop. It was Doc’s turn to cleanse the glass, or at least try.

“You ever seen so many fishermen heading north?” the banker said. “Cars pulling boats, trucks pulling boats, RVs pulling boats.”

“And some with boats on top of boats,” the kid said. “What’s that about?”

“You got a couple 14- or 16-footers of the same make,” the policeman said, “and it’s like a clam shell with all their gear inside for four guys. Ingenious, if you ask me.”

“Looks like a lot of work flipping the boats over and strapping them down like that,” the kid said.

“When they get floated and rigged and ready to fish, who cares about the work part?” Doc said.

“Where are all these people going?” the kid said.

“North,” the banker said. “Maybe northern Minnesota. Maybe into Canada. Maybe not as far as we go. Maybe farther. There are dozens of lakes within a couple hundred miles of here.”

The pump readout finally stopped its 200 rpm spinning, the attorney hung up the nozzle, replaced the cap, and said, “I never thought I’d see the day when I could max out a credit card on one fill-up.”

“Split six ways, it won’t be too bad,” I said, “and didn’t we figure it’s about the same cost as taking two cars?”

“I guess you’re right.”

“The best part is the wear and tear is on this rental, not on the family bus,” I said.

“You get that first walleye on the line,” Doc said, “and the cost of this trip will be the last thing on your mind.”

“So true,” the attorney said.

“You want me to drive for a while?” Doc said.

“No!” we all said.

Back on the road with the policeman at the wheel, the dash GPS said we had another 100 to International Falls, and about 200 from there to Sioux Lookout.

“Not a lot of ways to cut the 12-hour driving time,” Doc said. “Especially with this traffic.”

“And with having to stop for all your toilet breaks,” the kid said.

“Tell you what,” I said. “You add about 35 years to your plumbing, and get back to me on that.”

“Sorry,” the kid said. “It was an insensitive comment.”

“And you won’t repeat it?”

“Depends,” he said.

We would tie the kid’s shoelaces together, and put peanut butter on his reel handles before the week was out.

Another quick pit stop topped off the tank, and we joined the line at the border. The banker had a folder at the ready with receipts for our food and drink. We were prepared to pay import duty if asked, but after years of careful buying, we were probably well under the limit. It sure beat stopping in a Canadian grocery store for an hour of shopping, and our perishables were already well packed and on ice.

Finally our turn to cross, the policeman buzzed down the windows, and waited for instructions.

“Where you headed?” the border officer said.

“Sioux Lookout. Knobby’s.”

“Been there before?”

“Close to 40 times. Or more.”

“Then you know to watch for moose and deer,” he said. “It’s that time of year.”

“Thanks, we will.”

“Anything to declare?”

“Groceries for a week,” the policeman said. “And the allowed amount of adult beverages. We have receipts.”

The officer looked us over, was about to wave us on, when Doc said, “And we have a couple dozen ears of sweet corn.”

I’m sure the officer could hear our collective moan.

He leaned out of his booth, looked in at Doc, then looked at the policeman, shook his head and said, “There’s always one in every group.”

“Man, don’t we know it,” the policeman said.

The officer, with what might have been the hint of a smile, pointed toward the border bridge and said, “Enjoy your fishing. And your sweet corn.”

The policeman paid the bridge toll, and we were almost through Fort Frances before we let loose on Doc.

“You couldn’t shut up for just five more seconds, could you?” the attorney said.

“If you had mentioned your stash of 30 cigars, we probably would have been strip searched,” the banker said.

“Easiest border crossing ever, and you almost blew it for us,” I said.

“One more thing,” the kid said.

“What?” Doc said.

“I can’t wait to eat that

sweet corn.”

That set the stage for nearly four more hours of driving, laughing, and the giddy anticipation of the next morning’s fly-in followed by a week in the Northwest Ontario Bush.

As Doc fit the key into the door of our Sioux Lookout hotel room, I said, “Well, big guy. Here we are again.”

He said, “Care to join me at the bar for a nightcap?”

“Only if you’re buying.”

“My absolute pleasure.”

It had been a long day. It would be a short night. And the fun had just begun. I said, “Thanks, Doc.”

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North with Doc columnist Greg Knowles lives in Green Valley, Arizona. A 5-­volume set of the first 20 years of North with Doc is available in e-reader form at amazon.com.

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