I’m spending a week at a resort in northern Canada, a fishing camp catering to hard-core fishermen and women.

I watch as these singular-minded folks pull into the resort in their 3/4-ton four door Dodge Rams or the like pulling boats powered by 100 horsepower Suzuki outboards complete with swivel seats, windshields, depth gages, sonar fish-finders and mounted trolling motors. Big people mostly gathering around their cabins at days end, deep-frying their batter-coated fillets of Walleye on their propane deep-fryers, standing around in groups of six or so, beer in hand, watching their meal cook, talking of the days catch, I’m guessing.

I walk out the door of our cabin, they look at me, at my scratched up, dented 14-foot rental boat with the nine-horse Evenrude, ask how I did, “catch much?”; (better have a convincing answer to avoid the inevitable smirks, I’m thinking), “got a nice Walleye”, I lie.

I’m feeling pretty out of place here; I dream of spending time on one of the beautiful islands in one of these enormous lakes, enjoying a relaxing picnic away from the wave tossed boat and the competitive atmosphere of the camp.