My son David, brother-in-law Kenny and I joined up on many fall fishing trips to Canada. We always stayed in a Russell, Manitoba, motel, exploring nearby lakes outfitted with fly rods, chest waders and kick boats. Floating on chairs mounted between two inflatable pontoons, swim fins enabled mobility across the water. We looked forward to our time together every year.

One favorite spot was Secret Lake, where one day we sat floating side by side, casting the same direction with every fling of a fly triggering the obligatory “fish on!” proclamation. We caught and released so many big trout, arms ached.

Suddenly Kenny hollered, “Hey! Help me! I’m sinking!” I saw one of his pontoons had lost some air and he sat partially submerged in the water.

“Help me!” he hollered again.

“We’d like to,” I hollered back, “but we’re busy catching fish right now. You’re on your own!” He kicked himself to shore while David and I kept on angling.

Preparing Ken to fish each morning was far more challenging than netting huge brown, tiger or rainbow trout. His chronically enlarged ankle broken years earlier required a team effort to don or remove waders, boots and swim fins. The next afternoon, we ventured downwind across a much larger lake toward an island where others reported having good luck.

With no bites after two hours circling the island, we collectively decided to call it a day and headed back against a howling headwind. It took most of an hour of hard kicking to return where we had entered the lake. Legs wobbled loading up gear. Electric trolling motors replaced flippers the next year.

Another passion of Ken’s was gourmet cooking. At the end of a full day on the lakes he insisted we stop at a cooking store spotted in a small town, where he bought a five-pound sack of black quinoa. Before making it to the motel, he sat on the sack, splitting it open and emptying the contents all over the back seat.

Our final morning, all gear was loaded for the return to Minot before enjoying breakfast at the motel. Ken then proclaimed the need to use the restroom while David and I waited 15 minutes in the car. On approach to the border hours later, I asked Ken and David for passports. Kenny fumbled through his pants and coat pockets.

“I can’t find mine,” he said. “I know I had it in my pocket this morning.” I pulled to the side of the road to check his duffle bag. Still no passport.

A phone call to the hotel revealed it was found on a stall floor in the lobby men’s room. The motel offered to mail it to avoid a five-hour round trip for its recovery. A second call to Lucy Rosatti, our lake neighbor and border guard who sometimes worked the Peace Garden crossing, assured we could cross with a driver’s license, but we might be delayed.

Anticipating a request for explanation why there were just two passports, I told the crossing agent our story and that I’d spoken with Lucy Rosatti who assured the driver’s license would be sufficient. The agent looked down and frowned as he shook his head side to side.

“You were doing great … until you mentioned Lucy Rosatti,” he said. My shoulders slumped, expecting a long dive back to Russell. The agent then chuckled, handed documents over and waved us through adding, “Go on, get out of here.”

David once commented his uncle poked fun at those he cared about most but was too nice a guy to be good at it. You can find Ken fishing again now, where passports aren’t required, weather is perfect, pontoons never leak, fish always bite and a troubled ankle or tired legs don’t matter. I bet my brother-in-law is also smiling about quinoa remnants David still finds in his backseat crevasses and floorboard carpet now and then. Ken Rusk (b.1945, d. 2025).