ON RAINY LAKE - The point of lake travel is just that, moving down a lake. You can do this by canoe, by boat or, as in our case a few days ago, by houseboat, a craft with bedrooms (of a sort), a kitchen, an eating area, a screened porch, a head and, of course, a steering wheel.

We had wanted to go fishing, Patrick and Tony Kennedy and me, and Greg Powers. And lake travel would be required.

So we charted a houseboat.

In recent years, we have set aside the weekend after the Minnesota fishing opener to travel somewhere up north with the intent of putting walleyes on a stringer.

There's more involved here than just fishing, of course. Most often on these trips we have traveled by canoe, and canoe travel means campfires, tents, Duluth packs and pots of hot coffee on charred grills. Also sharp fillet knives, cast-iron griddles and, sometimes, a reflector oven to bake cookies.

And at day's end, a round of tanglefoot, stars brilliant against a black sky and loons laughing.

All of which is good but not very expedient, and this year expedience was a concern. So we called Billy Dougherty up on Rainy Lake to see if he had a houseboat we could rent.

He said yes, and we were set.

Few people in the nation have grown up on so much water, so close to a foreign land, and have been affected by so many government actions as Billy and his family.

When he was a kid, he spent summers at Kettle Falls, between Rainy and Kabetogema lakes, where his grandparents owned the famous Kettle Falls Hotel.

It was then that Billy first learned the lake, about the ducks in Black Bay in fall, the correct approach from both directions to Brule Narrows, and where in spring to find walleyes in the shallows downstream from Kettle Falls.

Since that time, the hotel and the land surrounding it, and much of Rainy Lake, has been made a part of Voyageurs National Park.

And Billy and his brother, Tom, and their parents, Bill and June, have, over the years, nurtured a great business, Rainy Lake Houseboats, which keeps them on or near the water most days, and thinking about water more often still.

"All summer long, we have our houseboats on Rainy Lake and in the park," Billy said. "Some weeks, I'm on the lake, guiding houseboat clients, fishing, all seven days."

As Billy spoke, he worked a jig and minnow in about 8 feet of water. The wind kicked up hard out of the north, and white caps roiled the main part of Rainy.

So we were tucked behind an island.

In our bay, the sun was bright but the day chilly, and we were mostly hidden from the wind.

Tony and I fished with Billy in his boat, while Greg and Patrick were nearby in another.

Soon, in the bow, Tony stood up, his rod bowed deeply. This was a good walleye, all signs pointed to that, as Tony struggled against an unseen foe that seemed serious about retaining its position near the lake bottom.

Nearby, Billy was armed with a net, and when the fish became visible he scooped it up, to him a familiar motion, and the walleye, some 22 inches long and plump, was quickly in hand and released.

The houseboat lifestyle

We started supper late that first night.

Billy had fished with us until about 5, before heading back up the lake to his home port.

Later, we tied our fishing boats to the stern of the houseboat, which was snugged against a pine-studded island.

"Contented" is a subjective term, but the feeling that soon settled among the four of us as we fired up the gas grill on the houseboat's bow was something like that.

Wind-blown and sunburned, we had stood our fishing rods in a corner of the "screened porch." Then a plate or two of hors d'oeuvres was set out, and someone prepared salads.

Soon, steaks sizzled atop the grill and conversation turned to the day's happenings. A fish caught here, another there. Additionally, world events over which none of us had any say were reviewed in detail, and the give-and-take among us grew smarter as the night grew longer.

Thus, the houseboat was becoming a type, albeit a floating type, of the men's "getaways" that are receiving some mention of late. The New York Times published a story recently about men needing refuge from their wives, families, and, presumably, the world at large. Some of these hovels were garages where beer was poured and discussions held about the attributes of, say, vintage automobiles. This, as I recall, seemed to be the sum of the story, guys and cars and adult beverages.

Never any fish.

But fish and talking about fish can be everything. And in our case, fish were everything. Rainy has been a great producer of walleyes in recent years, an uptick presumably tied to the mandate some years back by the Department of Natural Resources to release any walleyes between 17 and 28 inches long. This is a big protective slot, but its benefits seem many, not least the chance nowadays regularly to catch and keep, if one wishes, a limit of walleyes mostly on the lower side of that range.

But sometimes on Rainy, fish over 28 inches are caught also, real trophies.

And regularly, as with the first fish Tony boated, walleyes are hooked in the 17- to 28-inch range.

The houseboat was equipped with a generator, and it rumbled quietly in the stern until late that first night. Then someone shut it off and the boat's lights went dark. By then we had shuffled off to our bunks, and the generator's low vibration was replaced by a stillness that is the north country's alone.

With loons singing.

To travel or stay put

Patrick, to his credit, awoke first, and when he had waited, courteously, a short while, he restarted the generator. Soon, coffee was made.

For breakfast there was french toast. The morning was freezing, 28 degrees, and before we struggled into the fishing boats, we pulled on boots and heavy coats.

It's possible people elsewhere in the country fish like this, in the cold, dunking minnows and leeches for long hours at a time. But not likely. This is northern angling, and it and the splash against the boat gunwales of freezing water and the aromatic combustion of gas and oil are uniquely of this latitude, in this season.

We hadn't thought seriously about moving the houseboat to another anchorage. That kind of trip, where lake travel is a part of each day, has its benefits. But we preferred instead fanning out daily from the houseboat in the fishing boats, and looking for pods of walleyes where one fish could be taken after another.

And another still.

We fried walleyes that night, happy after a long day on the water to be back in our little home.

We fried walleyes and potatoes and also onions. Someone heated a can of beans and we arranged salads in bowls and in the background a marine radio chattered the chatter of one houseboat talking to another.

Billy Dougherty and his family had come to Rainy Lake long before we did. And before them, loggers and millwrights and moonshiners and prostitutes.

Now on that continuum we were here, and more comfortably than most.
Fish had brought us to the lake.
Fish would bring us back.

Dennis Anderson danderson@startribune.com For more information, go online to www.rainylakehouseboats.com