A Special Wilderness Feast

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THE BOUNDARY WATERS JOURNAL / SUMMER 1991

canoe country cuisine

by Mark Sakry A Special Wilderness Feast

It was another one of those wilderness trips you just can't wait to tell everyone about back home. Superb weather, great campsites and … well, we ate fish every day. That would mean every breakfast and every dinner for TEN days. No, we weren't landing them by the second. They weren't just jumping into the canoe. We were simply getting reasonably good—and consistent—walleye and small-mouth fishing on one lake in Quetico where you might very well expect it: Lake Kawnipi.
    Besides, there were just two of us—Bob and me. And even though our appetites may have suggested otherwise, it didn't really take much more than three or four fish per day to feed us. We were very content to simply paddle about at a leisurely pace and catch what we may, releasing the big ones and keeping only what we could eat. This left us with plenty of time to explore Kawnipi—a primary aim of our trip—and we were thus able to reach deep into nearly every extremity of the big, sprawling lake before trip's end.
    With ample measures of Shore Lunch, cracker meal, lemon juice and paprika, we were well-provisioned for our fishing boon. We ate well. Of course, we had prepared ourselves for poor fishing, as well, with a full supply of dried-food staples. This, we figured, would also allow us to cut fish from the menu on occasion, should we ever get sick of eating it (which we didn't). What Bob didn't know is that, as designated cook, I had secretly smuggled in an extra pound of bacon and a big, yellow hamburger onion for what I had learned from previous experience could prove to be the gustatory highlight of the trip: Layered fish dinner.
    But I wanted to catch Bob off guard and surprise him with this very special treat. Timing, afterall (as any veteran camp cook will tell you if asked the TRUE secret of satisfying the ranks), is crucial. I would lay my trap accordingly.
    There is this disquieting moment on every canoe trip when suddenly you realize the first half is over and you are slipping unwittingly into the second. It is the fulcrum point upon which, sooner or later, almost everyone is caught blinking dumbfoundedly at opposite ends of their adventure, and the time eternal of the wilderness is temporarily lost.
    So it happened almost simultaneously to Bob and me one afternoon while anchored off a rock in McKenzie Bay fishing for walleyes. Bob's voice suddenly broke the hypnotic lull of waves slapping against the canoe, "What day of the trip is this?"
    "I don't know," I muttered, somewhat startled. "Day five. Day six."
    "Day six," said Bob.
    "Day six," I ponderously concurred. And the somber realization struck. Neither balmy breezes nor sunshine could alleviate the ensuing mood. At least … for about five wave beats. That's when Bob's rod suddenly bent toward the surface and—with the liberation of a thrashing three-pound walleye from Kawnipi's crystal depths—time eternal was restored once again.
    "I'll fix 'er up special tonight, Bob," I announced. "A bit of a feast for the half-way point of our trip. Something different."
    Yep, perfect time to spring the trap.
    When we returned to camp, Bob attended to his self-prescribed daily routine of cleaning fish, while I made ready my hidden booty of victuals.
    "What the heck are you making?" Bob asked minutes later as he set a fully laden tin plate of fresh walleye fillets on a rock where I was slicing onions. "Onions—what are they for?"
    "Wait and see."
    "I thought we were out of bacon. What're you using bacon for?"
    "We need more fish. Clean me one more fish, eh?"
    "More fish? What for?"
    "Wait and see."
    I enjoyed keeping him guessing, because I knew exactly what he was in for. Besides, I was giving it to him in much the same manner as it had been given to me when I learned this method of preparing fish nearly twenty years ago; I had learned it from Gene Tomlinson, an old family friend and canoe-country camping partner of my father's, who is to be credited as the originator of this simple—but incredibly delicious—wilderness dinner.
    By the time Bob returned with the fillets, I was ready to spring it on him. "Alright, Bob," I announced a bit swaggeringly, "I'm going to show you the BEST method of cooking fish I know." Bob peered over my shoulder, his curiosity mounting. "Watch me now. You've gotta learn this."
    "I'm watching."
    "First you take a large dutch oven," I said, demonstrating as I spoke, "and you cover the bottom with slices of bacon, like so. Then you lay down one layer of fish fillets, like so. Now you put down a layer of onion slices to cover the fish, then another layer of bacon on top of that."
    "Looks good."
    "Yeah," I said, hiding a smirk but continuing to demonstrate, "now sprinkle it all real good with salt, pepper … and paprika. Then you layer it all over again. Fish. Onions. Bacon. And seasonings."
    "Looks simple enough," Bob agreeably noted as he seated himself on a nearby log. "How do you cook it then?"
    "Right on the fire, over a steady flame. But first you've gotta seal the top with aluminum foil—all the way around the edge—leaving enough slack to let it bulge in the middle as it picks up steam."
    "It'll burst."
    "Naw," I said, hoisting the pot confidently onto the fire grate under which a split-cedar fire was already rolling. After a few minutes the foil started to rise. Before long it expanded into a tight bubble.
    "It'll burst," Bob insisted. "Quick to the rescue!" I yelled suddenly, snatching up a fork … then carefully pricked a tiny hole, about the size of a minnow's eye, right in the center. Just a dab.
   Steam escaped instantly, venting in a steady stream from the hole until its vapor wafted exquisitely by our noses. That was the moment—the one I'd been waiting for—when Bob would succumb to the essences of my concoction and melt into a complete state of euphoria, the same way I had done when Gene Tomlinson first expelled the vapors of his artful wiles through our Quetico camp many years earlier.
    "Oh, jeez, does that smell good." It was working. "BOY, does that smell good!" Melting right into his log. "When do we EAT?"
    "Give it about thirty or forty minutes," I said, "but first we have to put a pressure cap on the cooker." Bob looked on with great interest as I placed a very tiny flat stone over the vent hole to suppress the steam. "There, just small enough to allow a little steam to escape. Tomlinson-style."
    The vapors hissed. "Who's he?" Bob drawled.
    Here, in a fashion peculiar to many sojourners of the north country, I took advantage of his simple question to spin yet one more elaborate yarn about some past canoe trip, which (in a fashion peculiar to many camp cooks) must have verged dangerously on babbling. But it did manage to fill the time before dinner.
   As I talked, I cooked some carrots and mashed potatoes to have with the layered dinner. Bob appeared to be listening intently as he gazed at the tiny stone skittering at the peak of the foil. He really was enjoying all this.
   At last, stripping the foil from the top of the Dutch oven, a final intoxicating plume of vapor was exhausted into the evening air. It was ready.
    "Oh, let's eat!" I exclaimed, then quickly divided the layered dinner into quarters and served-up one each with some vegetables on tin plates. Seated on a log near the fire, I hoisted a heap of steaming fish with my fork in the manner of making a toast. Savoringly I proclaimed, "Here, Bob, is to Kawnipi, great weather, and good fishing—may the second half of our trip be as rewarding as the first!"
    With a gulp, Bob recovered from a momentary gustatory lapse, let out a broad smile, and rejoined in similar fashion with, "Here's to you and Gene Tomlinson. This is great fish!"