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(Note: This trip took place in October 2022, but wanted to share nonetheless.)
“This place looks fishy,” I said, as my two brothers and I pushed off from Lows Lower Damn. Our rented Quetico 18-footer was low in the water with the three of us and our heavy packs, like pushing a damn Greyhound bus with flat tires. Leaves were popping red, water was creased with a breeze, and soon we were slipping across Higgins Pond and forward, on into Lows Lake we went. The islands crept by. Hours later we unloaded and setup camp near Grass Pond, not the perfect site, but enough potential to become perfect later. We were prepared for three days on Lows Lake, a place we’d never been, with hopes of catching fish.
And we indeed caught fish.
There exists a moment when you have caught so many small-to-medium-sized largemouth bass that you become bored and pizza and a hotel bed sound awful nice. The moment happens sometime around fish number 55. Strong winds blowing you across a long skinny exposed lake speed this dream along. The sudden appearance of a Bald Eagle on the last night remind you of more important things than giant fish. Time with brothers is also a good thing, especially when it means a small break from a crying newborn baby back home.
Our return paddle was a beast and it seemed, as it sometimes does at the end of a such a trip as this, that the wind was always in our face. Lows Lake is long. Hitchens in the wind churns like seltzer water. That damn Greyhound we paddled felt like it was always in reverse, the wind our foe, and my shoulders ached for weeks after. The burger at Bitters cured all other ills.
In summary, Lows has a mess of bass. But God still has yet to convince me anything else swims beneath its waters.
“This place looks fishy,” I said, as my two brothers and I pushed off from Lows Lower Damn. Our rented Quetico 18-footer was low in the water with the three of us and our heavy packs, like pushing a damn Greyhound bus with flat tires. Leaves were popping red, water was creased with a breeze, and soon we were slipping across Higgins Pond and forward, on into Lows Lake we went. The islands crept by. Hours later we unloaded and setup camp near Grass Pond, not the perfect site, but enough potential to become perfect later. We were prepared for three days on Lows Lake, a place we’d never been, with hopes of catching fish.
And we indeed caught fish.
There exists a moment when you have caught so many small-to-medium-sized largemouth bass that you become bored and pizza and a hotel bed sound awful nice. The moment happens sometime around fish number 55. Strong winds blowing you across a long skinny exposed lake speed this dream along. The sudden appearance of a Bald Eagle on the last night remind you of more important things than giant fish. Time with brothers is also a good thing, especially when it means a small break from a crying newborn baby back home.
Our return paddle was a beast and it seemed, as it sometimes does at the end of a such a trip as this, that the wind was always in our face. Lows Lake is long. Hitchens in the wind churns like seltzer water. That damn Greyhound we paddled felt like it was always in reverse, the wind our foe, and my shoulders ached for weeks after. The burger at Bitters cured all other ills.
In summary, Lows has a mess of bass. But God still has yet to convince me anything else swims beneath its waters.
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