of all worlds if we can just keep a low profile. Remember, I spent ninety days in this forest before they kicked my butt out of here last year.”
“Do you think they know there’s gold in this stream?” Bill asked.
“I’m not sure they even suspected that, they just wanted me out of here for some damned reason.”
“Well, if we’re going to tell them we’re fishing,” Bill said thoughtfully rubbing at his rough chin, “I think it would be wise if we set up camp near the lake. That way they’ll have a tough time questioning our presence, and we can sneak up stream whenever we want to look for gold.”
“I agree. And if we camp near the lake, they’ll have a tough time chasing us out,” Dave said. “They don’t dare start chasing U.S. fishermen off the lake, or the Game Wardens will be all over them.”
Ed nodded. “Yes, but before we even start searching for any gold, we still have to move our boat and campsite to the mouth of this stream, so maybe we should get busy.”
“Hey,” Dave shouted. “You’ve got to let me at least find one nugget, before we do that,” he grinned. “I still have to prove to you guys that I know what I’m talking about - don’t I?”
With that, Dave walked leather boots and all into the stream while staring at the bottom as if he expected to see that same sparkle he saw when he was bathing in this cold water a year ago. Several times he reached down, grabbing at a suspicious rock, only to turn and quickly throw it away in disgust. He even tried panning with his hands, in the shallow water, but to no avail.
Damn, this might be harder than I thought, he mumbled. But I know gold’s here somewhere, he whispered to himself.
“I think Ed’s right.” Bill finally interrupted Dave. “Let’s find the mouth of this stream and move our camp site first, and then we can search for gold as long as we’d like. I never expected it to be like picking cherries off a tree anyway. Come on Dave, you look silly as hell the way you’re going at it now, we need to get our equipment and do this thing right.”
“Yah, I guess you’re right,” Dave laughed, slipping in the mud several times as he climbed out of the water. “Let’s go find the mouth of this river and then get back to camp before its dark,” he snickered as he squeezed water from his wet pants legs.
As they walked along this stream it was a much easier hike than the previous Split Rock fiasco, and it only took about an hour before they were looking out over an expansive view of the lake, which Bill quickly identified as the Sabaskong Bay.
“This huge Sabaskong Bay is just to the north of the very large open body of water to our south,” Bill explained. “And to the west of the Sabaskong there are hundreds of islands that one can easily get lost in. Even though the Sabaskong looks peaceful today, I’ve always been very cautious of this section of the lake, because those sudden winds can whip around the islands and kick up some dangerous waves in an instant - and those waves can sometimes reach five to ten feet high in this peaceful water we’re looking at right now. Several times I’ve been forced to find refuge on one of those islands to the west, so it’s very easy for me to remember this crazy part of the lake.”
As Bill studied Dave’s map, it took him only moments to determine that they were at the eastern end of a very small bay between the great open water of Lake of the Woods and the Sabaskong, a place called Hay’s Bay, where Bill had once fished with an Indian guide. They were also surprised that a dense growth of tall reeds completely hid the entire mouth of their magic river. Actually, the stream had become much wider at the mouth, and had they tried to find it from the lake, they would never have even suspected their magic river was here.
“Know wonder nobody has found this remarkable stream from the lake,” Bill smirked, glancing over Dave’s shoulder at his map. “If you look at where we’re standing, they’ve only marked a small line on the map, which would have never even suggested there was a river here.”
“You’re absolutely right,” Dave whistled. “Those damned map makers sure missed this one. I just can’t believe it,” he scowled, marking a compass direction on his map. “I’d guess we can get back to our camp by walking at about 110 degrees,” he explained, pointing out the direction they’d need to take. Folding his map he tucked it safely back in his vest pocket. “I’d estimate we have about five miles to go, and if we can stay out of that dense underbrush, it’s probably about an hours walk as the Crow flies.”
“Well let’s not fly,” Ed chuckled, walking toward their first camp site at Split Rock Falls.
As they walked at a rather fast pace, every so often they’d chase up a deer or some other animal, and the frightened animals would all run about fifty yards and then suddenly stop and turn to see who these strangers were that had invaded their peaceful surroundings.
“It looks like we can have fresh venison if we want,” Dave grinned, still hiking at a rather fast pace through this primitive and untouched forest, stopping only to confirm his compass direction from time to time. As they came closer to the campsite, the brush once again became much thicker, which was a sure sign that they were getting near the Split Rock River. Finally Dave spotted their tent, which they’d only missed by about a hundred yards, which was a big relief. After a short rest, and lunch, they started the horrible ordeal of repacking and reloading the boat for their short trip to Hay’s Bay. Since the wind had picked up and was from the southwest, they would be protected by land almost all the way, so their overloaded boat wasn’t in any great danger of capsizing in those larger waves they could see off in the distance in the open waters of the Sabaskong Bay.
As they motored along the shoreline, Dave said. “I think we should do some serious fishing tomorrow.”
“Fishing,” Ed choked. “What are you talking about?”
“Yes fishing,” Dave repeated, once again looking at his map. “Just a few miles to the southwest is a small Indian reservation, right on the eastern shore of the open water, and I think we should check that out before we start making any noise looking for gold. I suspect these are the same Indians that chased my fanny out of here last year, and I’d like to see just what’s going on at that reservation anyway. Maybe we can see if they really make their living fishing or not, and just how busy they are this time of the year. Once we’re aware of their daily routine, we’ll stand a far better chance of not being chased by them. If we can prevent any contact with them, it certainly would be to our advantage. Don’t you agree?”
Both Ed and Bill stared straight ahead as they thought about what Dave had just said.
“Yes, you’re probably right,” Bill finally agreed. “But just what is it you’ll be trying to find out?”
“Well, if their tribe is netting fish every day, they sure aren’t mining gold, and chances are they won’t be chasing us off their plantation if they’re fishing. If we know when they clean and deliver their fish, or when their cooking, or drying their nets, or whatever they do on weekends and windy or rainy days, we can change our schedule accordingly, can’t we?”
“I see what you’re saying,” Ed smiled. “You know, I love to fish anyway, and I didn’t bring these binoculars along for nothing.”
Bill was pleased by how well the Islands were protecting them from the wind, as they wove their way from channel to channel, finally reaching the small entrance to Hay’s Bay. And after a great deal of searching they eventually found a perfect landing spot behind a natural rock cove that completely hid the boat from anyone that might be motoring along that shoreline. Then just above this boat landing, less than a hundred yards from the shore, they found a perfect campsite that was surrounded by tall pines, where they’d be well hidden from view as well as the wind, and it was also very close to their magic stream.
“I believe this is only about a quarter of a mile from where we’ll probably start our search for gold,” Dave explained.
Just to the southeast of their