Canada, to ten-year-old me, meant one thing.
Fish.
Not scenery.
Not family bonding.
Not international travel.
Fish.
This all started with our neighbor Don, who lived down the road from us in Tekamah. Don was a retired U.S. Army demolition expert, which already made him one of the most interesting humans a kid could know. He had a cabin on an island near Lake of the Woods and was planning to build a covered dock for the boats up there.
He had the place.
Dad had the truck.
Dad owned a Ford 600 grain truck with a big box on the back, and Don needed lumber hauled all the way from Tekamah to Canada. In small-town Nebraska, that kind of thing was never really a business transaction. It was a handshake, a favor, and a story waiting to happen.
So the deal was made.
We’d haul the lumber north, help build the dock, and stay a couple weeks at the cabin.
As far as I was concerned, this was basically heaven with mosquitoes.
Before we left, I begged Dad to take me to Jack’s Hardware so I could upgrade my tackle box. My usual setup was better suited for flathead catfish and bass, but this was Canada. This was big-league fishing.
I picked out five of the most beautiful lures money could buy.
Sparkly.
Shiny.
Probably designed for something the size of a shark.
But to ten-year-old me, they were perfect.
The truck got loaded with lumber, and the whole crew headed north around midnight: Dad, Mom, my brother Jason, Don and Lois, plus Boyd and Ernie.
An eleven-hour drive in kid time feels roughly equivalent to waiting out a prison sentence.
But eventually we made it.
We crossed into that crystal-clear Lake of the Woods country, took a smaller boat out to Don’s island cabin, and by the next morning I was practically vibrating with anticipation.
This was it.
The first fishing trip.
Don took us to one of his favorite spots, dropped anchor, and I fired out my first masterpiece lure into the blue water.
Nothing.
Meanwhile, Dad and Don were pulling in northern pike that looked like dinosaurs.
No problem.
I switched to lure number two.
Still nothing.
Then the spinner.
Nothing.
Then another.
Nothing.
At this point Dad and Don had already landed what felt like twelve fish between them, and I was starting to believe I had somehow offended the entire country of Canada.
Don noticed.
Without saying much, he reached into his tackle box and handed me the ugliest lure I had ever seen.
It looked like someone had carved a baitfish out of a chunk of firewood, glued on googly eyes, painted it yellow, and jammed a hook into the tail.
I stared at it.
Then at him.
Then at Dad.
Dad just gave me that calm little nod dads give when they already know the ending.
Don explained he had carved it himself from a pine branch and painted it by hand.
That somehow made it worse.
But I was desperate.
So I tied the ugly little homemade monstrosity onto my line and cast.
The miracle happened before it even hit the water.
A northern pike bigger than anything I had ever seen exploded out of the lake and crushed it in mid-plunk.
The strike nearly yanked me straight out of the boat.
Dad and Don grabbed me by the belt loops while yelling instructions, and suddenly I was in the fight of my life with what felt like a lake monster.
Somehow we got it close enough for Don to net it.
The fish hit the floor of that boat like a torpedo.
I just stood there staring.
My shiny store-bought masterpieces had done absolutely nothing.
But the weird little pine-branch lure with the hand-painted eyes had caught the fish I still remember all these years later.
Dad and Don had already reached their limit by then, so they just sat back and watched while I spent the rest of the morning catching mine.
What had felt like an eternity of frustration suddenly became one of the fastest, happiest hours of my childhood.
Funny how memory works.
I barely remember the expensive lures.
But I can still see that ugly handmade one.
Sometimes the thing that looks the least impressive ends up giving you the best day of your life.
If this resonated with you, you’re not alone.
