Christmas Wish

My Christmas wish is not for more stuff. If I'm honest, I have enough rods, reels, and tackle to last me until the Vikings win the Super Bowl. What I really want is what I already have: My wife, my family, my job along with the time and freedom to experience new things.

This past year I've had the chance to fish new waters and hunt new ground. The family and I also headed south over spring break and explored new territory between St. Louis and Nashville. When I think back, it's always travel and novel experiences I treasure the most.

One of my favorite outdoor adventures of 2018 came completely out of the blue. It may have something to do with being a teacher, but June is my favorite month of the year. The bluegills and crappies are shallow and hungry, the walleyes are done spawning and aggressive, the bass are up tight to the banks and explosive. Trout, salmon, pike - seemingly all game fish - are on the feed. It was during this prime stretch I was invited to try bowfishing for the first time.

I've bowhunted since I was 15, and I've fished since I was old enough to hold a rod. (On a side note, I've recently discovered Dad allowed me to contently cast spoons all day after secretly removing the hooks!) Combining bowhunting and fishing was completely foreign to me. We didn't grow up doing it, and I had only seen it on television. Al Denman, a fellow teacher, invited me on his rig to introduce me to one of his favorite pastimes. Not only would I get the chance to fling a few arrows but also we would be bowfishing at night, adding another element to the adventure.

The plan was to meet after the sun descended. Like most good fishermen, bowfishermen are secretive about their nighttime haunts, so I will leave our locale to your imagination. I arrived at least an hour early - full of nervous energy and anticipation. I paced up and down the length of the dock waiting for Al's lights to appear on the horizon. The sun dipped below the treetops and made its final descent. A blue heron took flight across the bay marking the end of his hunting hours.

At last, around 10:30 p.m., a strange-looking rig arrived at the landing. I had never been up close and personal with a bowfishing boat, but I could tell immediately it was a specialized piece of equipment. The boat itself was flat-

bottomed, 18 feet in length. The front end was the most striking. Taking up the entire bow was a raised platform with rails in all directions, standing about waist high. In dead center, a trolling motor was mounted to provide shallow water access to the back bays we would target. Mounted just above the waterline, a series of humongous halogen lights rimmed the bow.

As we backed the rig off the trailer and into the calm water, Al fired up another surprise. In the back of the boat, near the captain's chair sat a gas-powered generator. Once up and running, the darkness came alive. The water and surrounding shoreline was illuminated for 10 yards or more in front of us. Al had resigned himself to the role of captain for the night. A family friend, Griffin Fjeld, and I would be doing the shooting.

Our target for the night is a Minnesota invasive: the common carp. The captain handed me my weapon. Once again, a special piece of equipment. The bow holds no sights, and the heavy fiberglass arrow was fastened to a reel, spooled with dacron line that protrudes from the bow's riser. The business end of the arrow had a hefty, barbed tip. As we entered our first bay, I knew immediately that bowfishing would become a new addiction. I also knew that gathering all the equipment myself to get out just a few times a year would be cost prohibitive, so I was grateful for Al and his time.

I leaned into the railing surveying the murky water below. I was surprised by the pace of the boat: We were scooting right along. My eyes and reaction time would be tested. It took a while for my leg and back muscles to acclimate to the constant swaying as we adjusted our perch high above the water below. Half of the insects in northern Minnesota had quickly become mesmerized by the halogen lights guiding our way. The first carp of the night appeared for a millisecond from the mud below. Being a rookie, I pointed excitingly with my finger. Griff, the seasoned pro, had already released an arrow; the river exploded with mud and debris. He flipped the carp over the railing and just as quickly deposited it in a 55-gallon drum. He was positioned ready for his next shot before I really contemplated what had transpired. If Griff was a well-oiled machine, I was rusty bucket of bolts. I showed a few flashes of competence as the night progressed, but it was mostly Griff's show. His speed and accuracy were impressive. Al's navigation and natural guiding talent were equally appreciable. Besides carp we came across walleyes, muskies, pike, and numerous muskrats - all scurried safely away from what must have looked like, from their perspective, a strange alien craft.

The capstone of the night came in a particular weedy, murky and tight inlet connecting two bays. The water was extremely shallow and the surface was interrupted in several locations by a large wake. Something the size of my black lab pup was swimming just below the surface, pushing the water above, betraying its general direction of travel. Once confirmed as a carp, two arrows flew. As per the norm, mine sailed high or wide or low, and Griff's centered on the fish. The inlet became a mass of arrows, rope, weeds and confusion. With a mighty heave the carp was hoisted aboard. It was, by all accounts, the largest carp that has visited the front deck of Al's boat, ever. It's 2 a.m., and high fives, whoops and hollers echo across the empty landscape. The massive fish was three times larger than all others we had encountered. We estimated its weight at 35-40 pounds. We all agreed the fish was a perfect way to end the outing. We motored back to the landing and trailered the rig. We parted ways and I climbed into my truck, covered head to toe in carp slime. I pointed my truck towards home as light began to appear to the east.

As I made my way home, two things became certain. I knew that bowfishing could be forever added to the list of why I enjoy June so much - and I desperately needed a shower.

It's these new adventures with family and old and new friends I wish for the most.

Bret Baker is a lifetime resident of Cloquet. He is a proud husband, father, educator and outdoorsman. Bret began guiding fishing trips when he was 16 years old. Today, in his 40s, his passion is to introduce people to the tremendous outdoor adventures available in our region.