Pine Knot Outdoors: Tales of the cattail harvest

My wife, Jamie, loves to put her fall decorations out at the first sign of autumn. A couple of cold mornings triggers her to journey to the recesses of our basement in search of her stash of scarecrows and pumpkins, just as the first snow of the year signals all her snowmen to report for duty.

Noticeably missing in her bin this year was a bundle of cattails we’ve had for years. Our black lab, Mogli, ripped them to shreds at the height of his “puppy chews everything phase” last September. I know I’m going to have to replace them in the end, but I’m not volunteering anytime soon.

Out of the corner of my eye I can sense her excitement as we drive past a swamp. She stares intently out the passenger window, but never says a word. Her subliminal cues call out to me. She wants me to stop, pull the Suburban over, and get her some of those cattails. She knows better … after what happened last time.

It started innocently enough. A simple nod towards the ditch. “Those are super easy to get,” Jamie exclaimed. Just west of Mahtowa I pulled the Suburban to the edge of the dirt road.

I confidently approached the stand of cattails, Jamie’s multi-tool in hand. I was the harvester, the provider. This would be easy wife points. The closest cattails hung almost onto the road, piece of cake. I glanced back at the Suburban and gave a thumbs up.

In one gigantic slurping sound my entire left leg disappeared as I stepped off the road. My right leg, twisted and dry, lay helplessly. I was now looking up at the bumper on the Suburban for help. The whole Suburban shook with laughter in return.

Having no other choice, I fully committed. I threw myself into the muck. Settling in almost chest-deep, my situation grew worse. The stench was overpowering. The mixture of muck and stagnant water oozed into my Crocs and enveloped me in its warmth.

Still clutching the multi-tool I refocused on the task at hand. I flipped open the world’s tiniest pair of scissors and began cutting frantically at the stalks. A passerby slowed to a stop and asked if we were OK — loaded question.

I worked quickly and collected what I could. I sludged my way back to the roadside, struggling to pull myself from the ditch. Finally free, lying on my back on the side of the road, I realized one of my Crocs didn’t make it out. Shoulder deep I plunged into the ooze, regaining possession of it. As I loaded my haul into the back of the Suburban, I took note of the scene. It looked like a car had careened off the road and slammed into the marsh.

I drove slowly to the Park Lake boat landing and eased my way past the dock. Wading chest-deep into the water, I worked to remove a layer of filth.

Mission complete, we headed home. I drove with extreme caution. It’s amazing how well you drive when you’re no longer wearing your pants.

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 our region has to offer.