Past Essays: Capturing a Passion.

    At one time, the Queen of England owned a large portion of the southern central Canadian islands.  One particular secluded isle was sold to my uncle who was a real estate agent and avid fisherman from northern Minnesota.  He named it Laughing Loon Island, after the mysterious state bird of Minnesota.
    Laughing Loon Island was a place of quiet refuge.  I was first brought there following my grandmother's funeral in Nisswa, Minnesota.  It was almost my thirteenth birthday in the summer of 1992.  Before my parents drove back home to Arizona, they left me with my uncle, aunt, and cousin.  They assumed that a trip to the island would take my mind off the death of my grandmother.  I remember saying goodbye to my family with a mixture of hesitation and excitement because I knew they would be driving home still grieving for my grandmother, while i would be flying away on an adventure.
    I was excited about going over the border into another country.  I could not wait to be flying in a small, perhaps dangerous float plane, using an outhouse for a bathroom, and living without electricity.  I imagined an adventure of a woodman's dreams.  I pictured myself fishing in the morning and fishing in the evening; sharing the forest with the likes of grizzly bears and moose; eating the best hand caught meals cooked over a coal iron stove or an open flame.  Indeed, I didn't think twice about going to the island.
    Each day on the island was full of new experiences and things to see.  My uncle usually left me and my cousin free to explore the five acres of the island.  The air was so heavenly pure and unharmed, I could smell the cotton in my white t-shirt and the fish underwater.  My eyes ran from shear clean briskness in the clear morning.
    I remember stopping to sit on the ledge of a rock and looking towards the surrounding islands.  Everywhere in my vision there were dense green thickets meeting deep blue waters.  The nearest cabin was miles of wilderness away.  We were alone on the little island, and the uninhabited wilderness was open for me.
    Another day I hopped in the little aluminum boat with my fishing tackle and gear.  I felt so happy to have my own boat and to be able to glide across the water like a duck in total control. I came across flocks of loons and geese, different types of birds, a few otters and beavers swimming on their backs, and an occasional bald eagle.
    Soon, my curiosity led me to another discovery.  I portaged my boat through a forestation of wet peat moss, poison ivy, and clinging ticks into a smaller lake named Black.  I saw from one end to the other the dense forest and tall grass around the perimeter.  The water in Black lake, unclear and dark, almost made a gold wake behind the little, ten-horse motorboat.  I began to fish for walleye near the beaver dams, just as I had been taught by my uncle.
    Suddenly, as if Moses had appeared, a black bull moose emerged from the tree line!  This was a moose with such mammoth-size and proportion, that a six-foot man could stand under its belly!  I was a frozen jaw-hung human observer of nature and beauty, but the moose was not aware of my presence.  After a while of wallowing slowly through the tall grass, it disappeared into the brush.
    Floating on the way back to the island, I spotted a Canadian flag tied to a tree that was standing alone at the point tip of another island.
    "How long has that flag been on that tree? How often do other people come through these parts?" I thought to myself. "What's happened to the Queen of England? Where are the presidents and prime ministers? Where is my grandmother who passed away only eight days ago, as I sit alone in a tin boat in the middle of nowhere and nothing?" I pondered. "Man could not exist at all, and I could still be sitting here in this boat not knowing."
    At night in the cabin, underneath the cold blankets of my bed that were pulled tight over my head, I could hear the loon's call somewhere out in the black night.  The hauntingly eerie, high-pitched patterns of the loon, danced over the lake.  Their sounds conjured about thoughts that swirled in my mind.  I thought about the bears that might be outside my door ready to eat me.  I wondered what we would do if the plane broke down and we were stranded on the island.  I thought about my family far away in the desert.  I wondered how long I could stand to be apart from them.  I dreamed of someday owning my own island too.  I thought about becoming a bush pilot to help preserve the forests.  I thought about being a fat, old, bearded man in a cabin in the woods somewhere in desolate Canada like this.  I battled all sorts of fears and aspirations by dreaming of more to conquer.  I kept a candle lit through the night for comfort, but I knew I was beginning to enjoy being in the middle of nowhere without guidance.  It was becoming natural to me.
    As we flew away from Laughing Loon Island in my uncle's plane, I looked out the window to watch it fading away.  My time on the island had gone too fast.  I had a feeling that I would not be coming back for a long time.  I knew I would be going back to the desert soon, surrounded by my family and friends again.  I knew I would be back in the speed of everyday life and its duties.  I realized this experience had been full of wisdom and growth, and that I could never take that for granted; I never have.  In many ways, my trip to the island built the foundation of my passion for living life to the fullest.