"The day began as all such Northwoods days should -"
 The day began as all such Northwoods
days should - early, with the alarm clock sounding an invitation to join a
glorious Minnesota morning already in progress. (Could this be the same alarm
which blares obnoxiously on weekday mornings at home?) No shower or shave -
not today and perhaps not all week. Not while a sauna sits patiently by the
shore awaiting the afternoon ritual.
My clothes lie where they were
dropped last evening- dirty, crumpled and smelling ever so slightly of
walleye. As I pull these disgusting garments onto my still-groggy carcass
I am aware that they feel better against my skin than any dress shirt or
suit ever will. A battered and soiled blue corduroy ball cap hangs from
the doorknob, a Heileman's Old Style patch gallantly holding on by a few
gold threads. Smiling, I cover my greasy hair for the millionth time
with this sadly misshapen piece of headgear which has faithfully served
me for at least five years. Only at the cabin can a feller be dressed
and ready for business in under two minutes.
Coffee in hand, I grab an armload
of assorted gear and step out the cabin door. The lake greets me as it
always does - with beauty, serenity and an awesome dignity. Facing directly
east as I take in the lake�s majesty, I bask in the first moments of the
sun's slow ascent over the distant treeline. Squinting into its rays, I am
nearly blinded as they burst through the tops of the distant Norway and White
pines silhouetted on the horizon. The 45 degree May air draws a light mist
up and away from the calm water.
Sloshing hot coffee from my cup I
slowly walk across the yard to the dock. The grass shimmers with dew and a dog
barks somewhere across the lake. There is no other sound. With my gear piled
haphazardly on the end of the dock I stand motionless, slowly sipping the hot
java and letting it steam up my glasses just for the hell of it. I wait for
the sound.
The distant sound of the Ramboat grows
from a faint whine to a full-throttled roar as it bursts into view from around
the point. Cutting a wide and graceful arc through the still water, it
proudly slices through the morning mist as if it is the finest vessel on
the lake. Peering out from beneath his own well-worn hat, Captain Ed waves
his usual morning salute as he slows to approach the dock. At that moment
I am convinced that the Ramboat is the finest damn fishing boat any guy could
ever own. And so begins another day in paradise.
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