Dad and I used to journey back in time late October every year. Venturing off the gravel road, we would drive a half-mile through woods to a duck shack near Willmar. Dad inherited it in 1973 from his grandfather's hunting club, which built it in 1939. The walls were 1-by-12-inch strips of pine, covered with old worn tar paper. His shack never saw a drop of paint and never earned the title of cabin. An adjacent three-sided outhouse left you sitting with spectacular views of the lake.
Cabin Country: Time travel by duck shack
October 9, 2014 at 8:19PM
Upon arrival we would open locks, stack firewood, ready the boat and settle in for the evening. I always took the top bunk. If the wind blew northwest, I knew to bring an extra wool sock to bed. It was the perfect size to plug the softball-size hole in the wall above my head.
Just before lights out dad packed the antique potbelly stove with dry oak. Within minutes the ancient heater changed color from rusted brown to volcano red, heating the shack to sauna-like temperatures. By 3 a.m. the fire would be dead and the cold set in. Sometimes I saw Dad tiptoeing barefoot across the freezing wood floor. Newspaper and kindling in hand, he used the remaining embers to bring the fire back to life. It was never enough to glow the stove, but it did take the chill out.
Suddenly the alarm sounded and we were off. We stepped out into the night and I would guide the boat through darkness to Big Island or Ambush Point — names chosen by old duck hunters before us. While waiting for legal shooting time we drank coffee, ate doughnuts and counted falling stars — something not possible at home in the bright city. On occasion we even got a few ducks. By late morning it was time to head for shore.
Once we were back at the shack, dad would pull the cast-iron skillets from the wall and cook breakfast. The deep, rich flavor of butter-crusted eggs along with the aroma of bacon would fill the shack. Gourmet is the only word that comes to mind, thanks in part to the 65-year-old skillets. In a wing beat it was time to head home and return to reality. Dad passed away a few years ago at the age of 87. Reflecting back, it was just me and dad, a tar paper shack, and lakes with names like Hope, Minnetaga and Wankanda. I cherish those times spent together as the greatest father-son trips ever.
DON BLAU, MAPLE GROVE
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None of the boat’s occupants, two adults and two juveniles, were wearing life jackets, officials said.
