In 1995, several random circumstances converged to produce two often retold tales from one of my trips.

My brother-in-law Scott Parker invited me to join him and his friends on their annual fishing trip to Canada. I had never fished before in my life (nor had any particular interest in fishing), however my life was in a big rut and 10 days in remote Canada, away from everything, was very enticing.

After a long overnight drive following work on Friday, we arrived in International Falls, Minn. at daybreak Saturday. We took a puddle-jumper to the island that would be our home for the next eight days. This was the only time in my life that I got sick on an airplane, although what we took barely qualified as an actual airplane.

I caught exactly one fish during the trip, but I only fished a few times. Instead, I used the time to hang on the beach (reading, running and sleeping). The rest of the guys were cool about my semi-participation. We had a lot of great meals, lively card games and good-natured ribbing. I was introduced to Canadian Coke, actually preferring it to regular Coke and the full stock of ale beverages we had on hand. I also got my first taste of roto-baseball courtesy of Scott Olofsson (more on that in a future blog, check back in March 2008).

On the way back, we stopped at the Midway Bar, in Butternut, Wis., a village with 407 residents. It is owned by their friends Shane and Molly. As eight grizzled, weary men stumbled into the bar, we saw exactly two other patrons. One of them greeted me with a big, “Hi John!” I quickly recognized her as Joelle, a good friend during our time together at DePaul several years earlier. As we caught up on the ‘missing’ years, we kept laughing at the incredible odds of meeting up like this.

It was later the same evening when I did the unthinkable. I got the best of “The Nes.” Tom Nestlehut is a great guy, legendary even. I could tell you more of his legendary status, but space limitations and the family orientation of this blog prohibit most of the stories. He seemingly always has the upper hand … except this night. As Shane mixed up a large, completely mysterious concoction, Tom dared me to drink it (banking on my teetotaling in Canada), adding that I could tag a new nickname on him should I finish the beverage. I am not sure Tom had finished the dare before I emptied the glass. I was king for the night, giving Tom his new nickname, which I will not mention here (what happens in Butternut, stays in Butternut).

These stories have become legendary within that circle of friends. I am glad I was able to leave my mark, but I am happier to say that was one of the best trips of my life. My hope is that I get a return invitation in 2015, the 20^th anniversary.

- John Wroblewski, distribution specialist