16 years, I believe.

I remember every detail of that trip, and every trip since.

What impressed me most was the vastness of the place, especially the sky.

At night, the clarity was stunning. I sat up night after night, sipping bourbon in a cold metal cup just watching the stars shift.

During the day, huge billowy clouds seemed to sit in a sea of blue, the color of which seemed painfully pure to someone who lives across the Ohio River from Cincinnati.  And the sky seemed frozen, as if on canvas.

But then the wind would suddenly rise up and the personality of the place would change, becoming unpredictable and dangerous and demanding respect.

We came out of Stanton, headed through Dore to the Sturgeon Narrows and out Fern and the three B's.

I remember ....

.... my poncho flapping from the bow of the canoe when a sheet of rain rose up over Blueberry Island and hit us full force in the middle of Sturgeon. (different equipment now)

.... a rainbow on Olifaunt (pictures are inadequate).

.... tangy smallmouth, an hour from lake to stomach (a taste I never tire of).

... waking in a panic to a bear's soft grows and grunts, not realizing for a full minute that it was only snores from the other tent.

... the subtle smell of pine needles and strong smell of pine smoke that seemed to permeate everything -- tent shell, clothes and tongue (a smell that even today evokes the Quetico experience).

... the anxiety of my first big waves in a canoe (waves that today would rank maybe in the top 50).

... cringing as the old guy in the group (someone's father) used and lost what surely had to be antique lures.

... the thrill of my first Northern, and the scratches its teeth left on my lure.

I could go on.

but congrats, Mr. Old Salt, on 40 years. I hope I live long enough and stay healthy enough to talk about my 40th year in the Q.

-- kypaddler