Cascade Paddle Club Canoes, camp, and the same good company.

Trip report

Cedarkettle, after the strap and the weather

Nick’s rack gave us a late start, the sky made us sit on the beach, and the trout did not mind waiting. August at the home water.

Portrait of Brick Written by Brick · 10 August 2025 · Cedarkettle Lake

Fellows launching canoes at Cedarkettle Lake, all wearing fastened life vests
Finally on the water. Pete had counted the vests twice. The coffee had already done its job.
Nick kneeling beside a canoe on a roof rack, repairing a broken cam strap, Tom standing with coffee
The strap. Nick had a spare in the glove box. Of course he did.
Fellows in life vests waiting on the shore under a dark August sky, canoes pulled up
The sky had a speech. We let it finish. Vests on in case it changed its mind.
Two tandem canoes on a calm alpine lake, four paddlers wearing life vests
After. Marcus’s Wenonah doing what it does. The rest of us sightseeing, as usual.
Brick cooking trout in a cast-iron skillet at canoe camp
Trout, garlic, and the skillet that lives in the Prospector. Tom supervised the beer.
Brick and Sam comparing a wooden ottertail paddle and a bent-shaft paddle at camp
Ottertail, beavertail, bent shaft. Sam is still wrong. I like him anyway.
Fellows sitting around a campfire at dusk with beers, canoes on the shore
The fire that makes a late put-in feel like the plan.
Brick and Marcus drinking coffee at dawn beside canoes on a misty lake
Morning. Marcus does not talk until the cup is empty. A man after my own stove.

We always say August is Cedarkettle. It is. The lake does not care if you are on time.

Nick’s rack strap went at the put-in with a sound like a cheap joke. The Discovery sat there looking innocent. Tom had coffee. I had more coffee. Pete did not let anyone wander toward the water without a vest, which was correct, because the only thing worse than a late start is a clever one. Nick produced a spare strap from the glove box as if he had packed the failure in advance. We launched an hour down.

Then the sky stood up. Not a real storm. A dry, loud one over the ridge that Pete did not like the look of. We pulled the boats and sat. Jules wanted to go anyway. Pete said no with his face. I respect both men. We stayed on the gravel and watched the far arm get the weather we did not need. I had a whiskey in the flask and did not open it. Lightning and whiskey is how you get a story that is not this kind of story.

When it passed, Cedarkettle went back to being a plate. Marcus disappeared ahead in the Minnesota II. Sam and Jules took the Keewaydin. Tom had the Penobscot with Nick, who was still thinking about the strap. I had the Prospector, which is to say I had lunch, dinner, and a skillet that has outlived two hull fashions.

We did not make the little lake. Fine. The trout were in this one. I cooked them with too much garlic. Tom said so. I did not stop. There is a beer that belongs to a skillet like that.

In the evening Sam laid out the blades and we had the old argument. A bent shaft is a river tool. An ottertail is a lake voice. A beavertail is what you want when you are tired and still have to make the boat go. He will not be converted. I will not stop trying. The Grey Owl dripped on the table and sounded right.

Nick mentioned he had to be back for Kate in the morning. We packed like it was true. In the dawn Marcus and I sat with coffee and did not fix the contact form, the rack, or anything else. The lake was the lake.

We will be back in August. We always are. If the strap holds, we might even be on time.