FENCEROWS...The Monster Fish of Bear Paw Lake
By John Luthens
The rumors said that either there were no fish in Bear Paw Lake or, if there were, they were impossible to catch. There was also a version passed around that said there was a monster-maybe a bass, maybe a northern- that voraciously cleaned out all the food chain competitors and claimed sole ownership of the lake.
Those kinds of rumors are not uncommon in the northeastern Wisconsin woods of the Nicolet National Forest. There are miles of country stretching northward clear up into Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. Lakes pop up with abandon in those reaches and the rumors pop up with them.
I didn’t know who first came up with the story. Being the diligent journalist that I am, I checked my notes. Now, not only am I still unsure who came up with the story, but I’m not sure where I first heard it.
I’ve found the truth usually lies somewhere in a neutral ground in those types of tales, but Bear Paw Lake is home to a Boy Scout camp that has fostered boys into the ways of the outdoors since the World War II era of 1946. That’s a long time for a fish story to develop, with a lot of memories and campfire stories thrown in to add to the drama.
I trolled into Camp Bear Paw last week to find out for myself, inviting myself along with Grafton’s Boy Scout Troop 840 annual summer camp pilgrimage. I was going on the surface to give parental involvement to the Scout group. The Scouts spend most of the week with camp staff, learning swimming skills, shooting sports, as well as more advanced aspects of nature and ecology. They are also learning to interact within those environments on their own, so adult supervision amounts to minor coordination-advance planning of the week involves major coordination, but that’s a whole different story.
Anyway, I was just there to make sure that no scenes from “Lord of the Flies” were actually carried out by the boys. I have a truck too, so I think the Troop wanted me to help carry boys and gear back from camp-minor details- but I made sure to save an empty corner in my truck, alongside the waders, fishing rods, tents and other summer essentials that remain in the bed all summer. And I especially needed all the gear to find out the real story behind the monster fish of Bear Paw Lake.
When I arrived at camp on Wednesday night, the camp week was already half done, so I was concerned that the monster fish may have already claimed some victims. Instead the boys were going about the camp with smiles, well into the business of having a great time in the outdoor world, which is what life really revolves around at summer camp.
The author, monster hunter of Bear Paw Scout Camp.
Storms were rolling in, and the smell of pines carried in the growing wind. I found the campsite on a high point of ground overlooking Bear Paw Lake. Canvas tents stretched over ridgepoles, resting on wooden platforms. Scouts had lashed together a gate over the entrance. I walked underneath, toting my backpack and carrying my rod case. I marveled that the gate was constructed stronger than most of my attempts at minor carpentry have ever been able to produce.
The lake rolled out in front of me down the hill, and I stared out over it in the falling darkness, watching the growing rainstorm dimple its surface. It didn’t seem especially ominous. It actually possessed a serene beauty, which I tried hard not to notice. I was already into monster hunting mode.
I’ve likely watched too many episodes of “River Monsters” on the Animal Planet Network. The host of the show, Jeremy Wade, is a biologist, adventurer, and extreme angler. He travels to exotic locales such as the Amazon Basin and the jungles of the Congo, where he searches out legends of man-eating catfish, gar, and sharks.
Wade spends countless hours on the shores of these lost waters, pursuing his quarry and making dry, witty commentary. I fancied myself fitting the bill, walking to the point above the lake. I’ve been told I have an overactive imagination, so I guess I was lost somewhere between fantasy and reality when I walked into the Bear Paw campsite.
I fell asleep with the rain dancing on my tent, pondering my plan of attack for the next day. When morning came with the ringing of a loud hand-pulled bell, I thought that the monster had been sighted, but it was only the summons to the morning flag-raising. Dining hall breakfast followed, and I have to say that camp food isn’t half-bad. I think I might have even gone back for seconds.
After the Scouts were off on daily Merit Badge routines, I walked barefoot down the paths of Bear Paw Lake, finding my way through wet ferns to a rounded bay. Soon I was standing in the bog bottom up to my chest, without waders, and in a driving rainstorm. The lake muck bubbled around me as I cast poppers into the lily pad openings along the shore.
I lost three consecutive flies to the deep rooted lake vegetation. Nothing rose, and nothing splashed. But there were bumps and brushes on my legs, and at least one rumor was put to rest. I saw that there were indeed fish in Bear Paw Lake, as small bluegills brushed by and nibbled at my legs. One fish took an especially nasty nip- I figured it to be one of the killer varieties of bluegill.
The rain felt good. I enjoyed the muck between my toes and the wind washing over me. I was a monster hunter. A snapping turtle raised its head out of the water and stared at me-and that chased me out of the water and ended my monster hunting for that morning.
Giving the fishing a rest, I spent some time on the rifle range, target shooting with a .22 rifle, where I confirmed my suspicions that I better get God-awful close to a deer before attempting a shot this coming season.
I wandered to the far reaches of camp into thick stands of maple trees, examining a gravity line network the camp uses to produce its own syrup.
I spent an evening on the porch of the trading post, talking to a camp volunteer who spends summers at Bear Paw. He retired quite a few years ago, but still comes every year to offer his services for the simple purpose of helping Scouts grow into the outdoors. The topic came up of my own age, and I told him I was born in 1969, the year that man first landed on the moon.
He pointed into the window of the trading post, saying that he was a Scout in camp on that very summer. The trading post was the camp counselor’s lodge at the time, and the boys weren’t allowed inside. He remembered gathering around the porch with other boys and looking through the window at a television set to watch the landing.
Stories like that are more than the essence of summer camp. They are the essence of life.
The end of camp sneaks up pretty quickly when you’re occupied with those kinds of things. It almost made me forget the sole purpose of why I’d come-to find the monster fish of Bear Paw Lake. But for the next two mornings, the wake up bell tolled, calling everyone in, and reminding me of my mission.
How can it be so difficult to get up for work in the morning when the alarm clock sounds, but so easy to get up looking forward to the day when a large bell wakes you from a night spent in a sleeping bag?
I finally managed to rise before the bell, landing the monster fish on my last day in camp. It gave me a hard fight on my fly rod, as it tried to dive back into the reeds of the shoreline where I’d hooked it. But I eventually won the fight.
The monster fish of Bear Paw Lake.
I thought about mounting the bluegill, but in the end I just threw it back. I’d hate to put an end to generations of Scout camp stories. Besides, it might grow even bigger. I’m already looking forward to going back next summer and hunting it again.