How we met: Birch Lake

My memories of summer vacations on Duck Lake in the Upper Peninsula stayed with me and ran deep. And so I wanted to create a similar tradition with my own family, wife Noelle and kids Sonya and Todd. We tried week-long vacations at cabin resorts on Moon Lake (Duck’s neighbor in the UP) and Presque Isle Lake in far northern Vilas County, Wis. But I was looking for a place we could return to year after year, and for various reasons neither of those two quite fit.

In 1987, when Sonya was five and Todd two, we wrote to the Minocqua Chamber of Commerce for information on housekeeping cabins. Dozens of brochures came by mail; the one that appealed most was for Jung’s Birch Lake Cottages, near a place called Harshaw that we had never heard of, about a dozen miles southeast of Minocqua. We bought a week in a cabin called Bayside, sight unseen, for $400 (enough money back then to ensure, pretty well, a quality experience).

It was love at first sight. Noelle fell for the cozy two-bedroom cabin, with new furnishings, knotty pine walls and, as bonuses, a fireplace, microwave oven, and deck – in her words, “all the comforts we don’t have at home.” For me it was about the lake, 180 acres with expansive beds of cabbage weeds on the edges of which I could catch walleyes, bluegills, perch, and the occasional largemouth bass. The romance was sealed when, on our first night, I caught a 38-inch muskie right off our pier. There was a nice swimming area for the kids, and all the Northwoods icons were there -- loons, ospreys, eagles, deer, raccoons.

We visited Birch Lake for a week almost every summer thereafter, usually staying in the Lakeside cabin, right next to Bayview. Then in 2009, a wooded lot came on the market, straight across the lake from the cottages. We closed on the lot in December of that year, parked an RV trailer there, and by fall 2011 had our own cottage. The way we came to buy the land is a story in itself, for another time. Suffice it to say our relationship with Birch Lake has bloomed into something deeper and longer-lasting.

How about you? How did the romance with your favorite lake begin? How did you two meet?

One lake, many worlds

It’s easy to think of a lake as a pool of water in which to drop a fishing lure or on which to float a boat, canoe or air mattress. But your lake is really a collection of worlds, each in its own way teeming with life. There’s the water’s edge where otters prowl the sandy fringes, where deer slip out from the cover of the trees to drink, and where eagles and ospreys perch in tall pines and scan the wavelets. The air above the water is another world, of those big raptors soaring and circling; of buzzing dragonflies, silent and delicate damselflies, and flying insects of many descriptions; of mallards and mergansers arrowing overhead.

On the surface we find ducks and loons skimming; the occasional muskrat dragging strands of cattail leaves; clusters of darting black beetles; water striders floating on surface tension, propelled by oarlike legs; ephemeral mayflies with wings raised like sails; and painted and snapping turtles, snouts poking skyward, sipping the air. Beneath the surface the lake is a thin soup of microscopic plant and animal plankton, base of the food chain for fish, not just those we like to catch but for many small and secretive species we rarely see, even if we peer into their world through a glass mask while snorkeling.

The bottom sand and muck are marked with the serpentine trails of clams and mussels and speckled with the curled shells of snails and the molts of crayfish. Buried in the sediment lie an assortment of worms, along with immature forms of various flies and other insects, metamorphosing. And that’s not even counting the different zones of vegetation; the variations in bottom character (rock, gravel, sand, muck); the dropoffs, flats and mid-lake humps; or the temperature-related strata of the water itself. Or, for that matter, the way these and all the other worlds change with the seasons.

Yes, every lake is much more than what appears to the casual viewer. And every lake rewards those who look closer and deeper.

How we met: Duck Lake

Every romance story starts with how they met. How did your romance with your lake begin? My story begins with Duck Lake – I have known it since I was eight years old. It lies in the big woods of Michigan's Upper Peninsula, just over Wisconsin line from the little town of Land O' Lakes. It’s about two miles long, shaped something like a plump L with a short horizontal stroke.

A co-worker of my father owned a cabin on Duck Lake. He and his two sons took my dad, my older brother and me there for a visit on a Memorial Day weekend. It was there I saw eagles and loons for the first time, and heard the hammering of pileated woodpeckers deep in the forest. How to describe the allure of the North? The trees are taller, the white pines especially standing in majesty. The wind sounds different. Storms loom larger; thunder booms across the vast stretches of woods and water. The night woods are full of animal noises, rustles and footfalls. Loon calls ring out over the lake – what benignly demented sort of deity would create such a creature as a loon?

My family rented that cabin one or two weeks each summer until I was in my early 20s. A great fishing spot lay just a few dozen oar strokes out from the cabin. We fished there morning to dusk, two or three of us kids in each boat with mom or dad. As I grew older, I took a 14-foot wooden rowboat on fishing explorations from one end of the lake to the other. Since then I’ve fished Duck once or twice a year almost without fail and have come to know it well. The public boat landing is right next to the old cabin property; that spot in front of the cabin is still the best spot on the lake.

In future posts I’ll tell you about my other two loves, Dinner and Birch lakes. Meantime, what’s the story of your favorite lake? How did you two meet?

Bottoms up: The lake unveiled

If yours is like most lakes in the Lakeland area, you’re still waiting for ice-out. Will you be there to observe it? I had always wanted to see the thaw happen, and last year, at last, I did. It wasn’t (as I expected) a matter of observing slow changes over a number of days. In fact, it was sudden, much of the process unfolding in little more than an hour.

Did you know (I didn't until I recently did some reading) that your lake ice thaws from the bottom up? First the snow melts off the surface. Then the sun penetrates the ice and warms the water underneath. Warm air above the ice accelerates the thaw, of course, but it’s the warming water below that really does the trick.

On April 28 last year, Birch Lake was still frozen stiff. That day and the next two days were in the 70s to 80s. Then came three more days of below-freezing temperatures, rain, snow and sleet, before winter's grip finally broke. At that point, the lake ice still looked solid – we heard reports from other lakes of remaining ice up to two feet thick. Who knew how long it would be until our lake opened up?

Saturday, May 4, saw highs in the 70s, as did Sunday, and Monday, the day it finally happened.
When I visited the lake’s shore Monday morning, ice still covered all except a small area on the far north side. There had been little change (that one could see) when I left for town about 2 p.m. But when I returned around 5 p.m., about 30 percent of our lobe of the lake had cleared, the remaining ice forming an irregular pattern, like continents in an ocean.

Then, at about 6 p.m., a wind brewed up from the east and began pushing the ice away, at more than glacial speed. Sitting on our deck, I could mark with my eye a feature on an ice sheet and note its progress relative to the trunk of a tree in our woods. It was a bit like watching the minute hand on a clock, the motion barely perceptible, yet unmistakable.

Within about an hour, all the ice had blown off to the west, the stirring action of wind-driven wavelets surely speeding up the thaw at the same time. Just like that, our entire end of the lake, some 100-plus acres of it, lay fully open. By morning, the entire lake had cleared, and loons plied the water, crying out with joy.

After the longest winter or the worst spring I could remember in my 60 years, a new season had arrived. And now, at long last – after what is officially this area’s the worst winter on record – we’re about to see it happen again. And all I can say to that is: Bottoms up!

Growing to love your lake

I have three mistresses. My wife not only knows but approves. The mistresses are Wisconsin northwoods lakes, two just far enough north and one just far enough south to be spared most of the tourist noise. I've carried on affairs with each for at least 25 years, in one case for more than 50. Their names are Duck, Dinner, and Birch. My relationships with them are somewhat one-dimensional: Mostly I fish them. And yet, through the years, I weigh each visit less in fish caught than in ambience, comfort, memory. I promise not to stretch the romance metaphor too thin, but I do love these waters.

You may have a  favorite lake, or more than one -- a place where you vacationed as a child, where your family owns a cabin, where you rent a summer cottage year after year, where you go on a ritual long-weekend camping trip with friends. It's easy to love a lake, especially one you found on your own fairly early in life and have known for decades. What is love, after all, but genuine concern for someone or something outside ourselves?

What I hope to do here is help you love your lake even more -- by getting to know it intimately, as I have come to know mine. I've finally chosen one lake -- my wife and I have built a cottage there that has now become a home. So I'll share with you what I observe about my lake and what I've learned about lakes in general, through experience, observation, reading, and even lab, field and classroom study. In the process, because for all their differences lakes have much in common, you will learn about your lake and come to appreciate it more.

The ice abides: Who’s winning the war?

While those of us in the Northwoods have shivered our way through December, January and now most of February, a silent war has been playing out on your lake, and mine, and others.

Below-zero temperatures, day after day, want to make the ice thicker, while two feet or so of light, fluffy snow wants to act like the Pink Panther’s favorite product and insulate. So, in the face of this winter’s record-challenging cold, who is winning? Is the ice steadily building or is the insulation keeping its thickness close to normal?

It turns out the answer isn’t entirely clear. Today I asked a young man at Kurt’s Island Sport Shop in Minocqua (Wis.) what ice conditions are like on the local lakes. He told me that on average the ice is about 30 inches thick. That’s a lot of ice, but not unprecedented, and as cold as it has been I wouldn’t have been surprised if it had been much thicker. Last February here on Birch Lake (near Harshaw) I went ice fishing with a friend, and we had to power-auger through more than two feel of ice to find water. Of course, last year wasn’t as cold, but there was very little snow cover.

So this year it seems the snow’s R-value is having an effect. And the snow is having other effects too. The fellow at the sport shop said there’s a heavy layer of slush beneath the surface snow. Why? According to the folks at WinterTrekking.com, slush forms on top of lake ice from overflowing water: 

"As soon as it snows on top of ice, that creates a force pushing down on the floating ice.  All ice, including perfectly safe thick ice, naturally cracks day and night, expanding and contracting with changing air temperatures. When the ice cracks, water can rush up through the cracks on top of the ice but under the insulating snow, and form slush pockets.  These slush pockets can become very broad, sometimes covering entire lakes under the snow, and they are a hazard to travelers."

And what’s the consequence? A lot of ice anglers are getting their 4-wheelers stuck on the way to their shanties. They’re learning a lesson from trout fishing writer John Gierach: "Four-wheel drive doesn‘t mean you can go anywhere. It just means you can get stuck in worse places.” And I can’t think of many worse places to get stuck than hubcap-deep in slush in the middle of some lake snowscape. So if you’re going fishing these days, a snowmobile is the best way to get to your favorite spot (if it’s too far out to reach on snowshoes).

And just wait until (if ever) all that snow starts to melt. Then we’re going to see some messy conditions on our lakes.

The ice abides: How thick is it?

It has been cold. Very cold. For a long time. I am confident we have not seen a temperature above freezing since Thanksgiving, and now the forecast calls for 30 below zero on Sunday into Monday.

So, living on a lake as I do, I wonder: How thick is that ice? It’s not easy to find out unless you are friendly with ice fishermen. Two winters ago, when a friend came north in February to go fishing, we found the ice more than two feet thick. It’s been much colder this year, but it’s only January.

And of course there’s the matter of snow – a good insulator – on top of the ice. Just how much insulation does snow provide? It’s hard to get a good answer. One “fact” I’ve seen in several places on the Internet (though without a credible source cited) says 10 inches of fresh snow that is 7 percent water (and the rest presumably air) has about the same R-value (R-18) as a 6-inch layer of fiberglass insulation. That’s quite impressive, if true. We have at least 10 inches of snow on Birch Lake now.

Then there’s the matter of the ice itself. On the Internet I found statements (again unattributed) that ice a foot thick has an R-value of 9, “much higher than wood, newspaper, or rigid foam board.” I also found values (credible ones from university sources) for the thermal conductivity of ice. Without getting into a lot of scientific units, it turns out that ice is only about twice and thermally conductive as glass, which is a notoriously poor heat conductor.

So what does all that have to do with the thickness of this winter’s ice? Well, for the ice to get thicker, heat (such as it is) has to escape from the water immediately below the ice. To do that, it has to penetrate first the ice and then the snow. The thicker the ice, and the deeper the snow, the harder it is for that heat to escape. 

I am betting that 30 degrees below zero for a couple of days will meaningfully thicken the ice. But if you want to know how thick the ice is on your lake, you’ll likely have to talk to an ice angler. Or go out and bore a hole yourself.