Lake Makokibatan is in Ontario, about a hundred miles north of the nearest road. It is one of a chain of lakes on the Albany River, which flows into James Bay. On the first of our several trips there, one Chippewa couple, who lived on the north shore, inhabited the big lake. They had built two comfortable log cabins, and lived there year round. In summer, they occasionally rented the spare cabin to fisherman. In Fall, Dave Baxter guided moose hunters. In winter, he had his trap lines. We observed that they were perfectly capable of living off the land and water, as their ancestors had done a hundred years ago, but they also made enough money to be supplied by the infrequent seaplanes with canned food and fuel. They had aluminum boats and outboard motors.

We learned on our first visit that we could easily catch walleyed pike in sizes up to eight pounds. These delicious fish were the mainstay of our diet, along with the limited supple of staples that could be flown in with us. My son Bob was the camp chef on all of these expeditions, and did nobly. For excitement, we cast lures - large spoons and plugs - for the fierce and fearless northern pike that lurked along the shallow weedy shores. These fish charged the lure, and often struck very near the boat. One time a twenty-pound fish struck my brother Dave's plug only a few feet from the boat. I put the landing net in front of it and it charged right on through, leaving a hole in the net! I felt like a bullfighter.

Another incident illustrates how tough these pike are. Bob had hooked a big pike on his Daredevle spoon, and the fish broke the line and got away. Ten minutes later, Bob yelled, "Here he comes again!" And sure enough he caught, the same fish with the spoon dangling from its mouth!

Living next to the Baxters was fascinating and educational, especially to Bob's two boys. David was only seven when he went with us on our second summer. As we flew in over the lake, the pilot saw a young bull moose eating lily pads in a bay about twelve miles from Baxter's camp. When he told Baxter, the Indian said, "We've been eating nothing but fish all summer!" He immediately headed up the lake with his boat, rifle and teen-aged son, and later returned with the moose. (The son confided that it had been a lucky shot - the bullet had skipped along the surface of the water, and hit the animal in the spine).

Grandson Dave was intrigued to watch the whole process of skinning and butchering, preparing and tanning the hide by traditional Indian methods. The fat was scraped off the inside of the stretched hide using the split shinbone of the moose, better than using a knife, because the edge of the bone was too dull to cut the skin. The tanning process included scrubbing the hide with moose brain. Baxter's wife, whose teeth were already worn down to the gums, chewed the hide to soften it. She made moccasins for all of us. Baxter gave us a big steak, which tasted as good as any beef I've ever eaten; and the liver, which Bob bravely sliced early next morning for a delicious breakfast. Young David brought home a hoof for a souvenir.

Baxter's son was a schoolteacher at the Fort Hope reservation, sixty miles upriver. He and his family came down by boat to visit. They had shot a moose that was standing in the river, but found it so badly wounded and gangrenous that the meat was unfit to eat. They had done the poor animal a favor, because it was nearly dead; obviously wounds inflicted by wolves.

Young David and Steven enjoyed playing with the Indian children. They played Cowboys and Indians. Three guess - who were the Indians?

To provide another source of entertainment, our guide would take two of us at a time down the dangerous river, rocky and swift, that was the lake's outlet. Here we caught brook trout, two or three pounds and delicious. The Indian (Dave) was so expert with his pole that he could hold the canoe still in the current while we fished, or even pole us upstream. He told us that a trio of moose hunters, rashly essaying the river without a guide, had capsized and drowned.

My brother Dave, the most avid fisherman of us all and eager to try anything new, once made a mistake that caused us to tease him for years. Seeing a sturgeon that the Indian had netted, and knowing that smoked sturgeon is a delicacy, he traded half a dozen hard-caught trout for the still flapping fish. When it was fried, no one could eat it; not even Dave, who was brave enough to eat pelican eggs!

Some of our better fishing was at the rocky outlet of the lake. We became fairly familiar with the locations of hazardous rocks, but water levels changed from one year to the next. This led to a boat accident that was comical, but might have been bad. Bob and another fisherman were motoring across the lake at full speed, when the aluminum boat came to an immediate grinding stop. They were thrown to the bottom of the boat in a tangle of fishing tackle. After getting themselves in order, they found that the boat was balanced on a flat rock surrounded by deep water. Unable to stand on bottom and push the boat loose, they gingerly unbalanced the boat until it slid into the water.

The timing of our returns to civilization was always uncertain, being dependent on the weather, the bush pilots' schedules and the condition of the planes - and, we sometimes though, whether they remembered where we were. Our worst delay was caused by a three-day fog that was so dense we couldn't see three feet. We couldn't even go fishing. By the end of the first day, our carefully calibrated food supplies had dwindled, literally, to flour and salt. Next day our Austrian companion made "crepes Suzette" from flour, salt, and water. On the third day, our Indian friends brought over a loaf of Bannock bread from their short supplies. Our learned Austrian and grandson David, one of these long foggy days, had a long discussion about prehistoric reptiles. They disagreed about one kind. David had the last word when he stated, "Those were land-swimming dinosaurs!"

In the evenings, with out bellies full of good food, and the fire burning in the potbellied stove, we often exchanged yarns. One night I told a story that got me into hot water years later. I said, "When my grandfather was a young man, he spend a summer in the North Woods and fell in love with a pretty Chippewa maiden. He married her, so we have some Indian blood in the family." Nobody said a word or cracked a smile, so I decided my yarn was a failure and forgot about it. Two years later, I was shocked to hear one of my grandsons telling a friend that he was one-sixteenth Indian! Bob, who should have known our genealogy better, swallowed the story hook, line and sinker! (He says I should have taught them).

It is a historical fact, however, that two boys names Stookey were captured in an Indian raid in Ohio in pioneer times. One escaped, the other lived with the Indians until he became ill at the age of fifty, and died in the hospital.

I've always been happily surprised that my sons and grandsons have always been good fishermen, campers, and outdoorsmen. Our back-to nature adventures link the generations together in a mutual understanding and friendly companionship.

My brother Dave was always ingenious and brave. I won't accuse him of being lazy, but he did come up with a very useful idea for draining water out of aluminum boats without having to turn the boat over or laboriously bail it. I don't know whether the idea was Dave's invention, but I've never heard of it anywhere else, nor do I know whether the discovery was an astute theoretical application of the basic laws of physics or pure accident.

The idea is most valuable when the boat is out in a lake or a river, and is filling with water because it leaks, or a rainstorm comes up, or high waves slop water in. It really works, because I've personally seen it in action.

Here's the idea. Most aluminum boats have drain holes near the bottom of the rear transom. These are fitted with removable plugs. Dave scared me by demonstrating while we were motoring down the lake at good speed. He suddenly pulled out the drain plug, which I thought would sink the boat. Instead, the water in the boat rapidly ran out, and Dave replaced the plug!

I presume there is a minimum speed at which the flow reverses. This could be readily calculated by a good physicist. I know that it one stops, anchors and starts fishing without putting the plug in, one's feet quickly get wet.