Over the years I try not to talk too much of my vacation save from the typical column before and after. This is the latter.

A big reason I try not to write about my vacation is because in the end it will inevitably come out sounding whining.

And for good reason.

For one week I give up my school-front property for lake-front property and really, while I have nothing against the schools of Austin — it’s hard to beat the blue-waters of Bad Axe Lake — the most Vikingest name for a lake you’ll ever find in northern Minnesota.

Not that it’s really difficult because none the other lakes around us are terribly Viking. There is a lake called Potato Lake that is not — as the name would imply — shaped like a potato and Long Lake which hits the nail a little too much on the head. It’s the under-hand softball pitch of lake naming.

But, still some rather un-Johnson like things happened this year that, considering our family’s history, is worth talking about.

Namely, we hit our limit on crappies for two days. Granted this meant we ate a lot of fish in order to remain legal — and I’m probably good with my crappie quota for awhile.

Still, it’s momentous because not only did we get our limit, but they were good sized crappie. Usually, our standards for what we keep and eat aren’t that high. Don’t get me wrong, we don’t keep the smallest of the small. We’re not that desperate for a fish fry.

But they weren’t the biggest we ever caught, except this year we found the spots where the bigger ones swam. At least for awhile. Our luck had kind of run out at the end of the week, but by then it really didn’t matter that much.

Often times, in years past, our limit-reaching was hindered by the lack of being able to find them. We had our spots, some time-tested to produce something if not large numbers. There was the spot just off the inlet to Bad Axe’s conjoined, smaller lake Buck Lake and then the other spot straight out from some reeds near that same inlet.

Nearby, in the northwest corner of the lake and then out in front of the swimming beach not to mention off our own dock.

All spots got us crappie, except this year it was primarily off the raft that required you to be out far enough as to avoid snagging children and then off our own dock.

Just two places got us our limit, but that’s okay, it’s not very often we can fish for sport and then throw them back.

Now, were there hurdles? Of course.

It’s not a yearly fishing trip if I don’t have at least one fight involving newly-invented swear words fired at the fishing pole from point blank range.

And again, in making history, it happened just once. It was my old nemesis — the knot in the fishing line.

It starts small enough. The line is cast, but there is a catch. You look down and see a small loop — the beginning of the problem.

You pull out a bunch of line to get to the loop which is somehow originating deeper in the reel than the regular casting would allude to, causing you to wonder about transdimensional fishing. But as you begin to reel the excess line in, you see a bunching starting to form and no matter how careful you are, you just know that it’s going to end in a knot — and it does. Really, I wouldn’t be surprised if scientists break the binds of string theory wide open by studying fishing line knots.

But really, that was the only hitch in an otherwise perfect week. Rather small all things considered and I really didn’t invent any real unqiue words of color.

That part makes me a little sad.

It’s hard to put into words the power of this place for me though. Granted, it’s probably the same for every person vacationing on every lake, but I can’t speak for them. If I could speak for them there would be a lot more enthusiasm for the 80s best movie about being a bouncer ever — “Road House.” But there’s not and I’m again, a little sad.

It’s hard to argue with waking up to loons singing and fog on the lake. It’s hard to beat thunderstorms over the lake at night or stars shining clearly.

It’s hard to beat the pancakes at Rapid River Logging Camp.

Shameless plug: If you’re in the Park Rapids area — go to this place, eat their pancakes and be uncomfortable. If they would let me I would drink their syrup like coffee and I drink a lot of coffee.

So now it’s another year before I can return. Until then I will stare at the school across the street and imagine I hear a loon in the distance.

Oh, that was you? My apologies.