Memories of Mr. Allen "Skip" Frank Praefke, II

Theresa Trigo

My deepest condolences and prayers to the family.

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Ryan Praefke

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Ryan Praefke

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Ryan Praefke

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Ryan Praefke

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Ryan Praefke

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Ryan Praefke

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Ryan Praefke

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Ryan Praefke

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Ryan Praefke

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Ryan Praefke

Miss the north country, the winds, woodsmoke and pines — pacing the old driveway out of habit, memory and choice. Our father’s “Celebration of Life” on July 29th was truly a splendid gathering, a spiritual affair for a man named, “Skip” and he couldn’t be be happier, touched or at peace. THANK YOU TO EVERYONE who traversed so many miles to make that Saturday afternoon a perfect and last memory 🙏

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Sarah Guenther

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Sarah Guenther

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Sarah Guenther

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Sarah Guenther

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Sarah Guenther

Spirit North

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Justin Loiacono

I met Skip in 2000 before Jay and I roomed together in college and from the start he treated me and our other roommates like his sons. There were many nights around bonfires sharing a cigar and old fashioned complaining about Wisconsin sports and I still remember the pain in my side from laughing all night at Skip’s stories including his run ins with Trapper John early in his law enforcement career. I cherish memories of his infectious laugh, energy and positivity and hope to share those qualities with my kids. Skip was an amazing man.

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Cindy Bower

Skip’s yard

Cowboy Skip — with Chip Elbe

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Jason Severson

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Jason Severson

Skip was one of my favorite instructors at FVTC. He was a great guy and had a laugh that was contagious. ... Read more Skip was one of my favorite instructors at FVTC. He was a great guy and had a laugh that was contagious. My condolences to his... Read more Skip was one of my favorite instructors at FVTC. He... Read more

Amanda Mott

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Amanda Mott

My heart bleeds for you. I know how much you all adored him, and he adored you all. He will be missed. ... Read more My heart bleeds for you. I know how much you all adored him, and he adored you all. He will be missed. I love you all. My heart bleeds for you. I know how much you all adored... Read more

Andy & Nicole O’Brien

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Robert Arps

1999, Fox Valley Technical College, North Bluemound Drive, Appleton, WI, USA

I am very sorry to hear of the passing of Mr. Praefke. He was my favorite instructor while I was attending FVTC in 1999/2000. He had so much energy and passion, and no matter the topic, he always added humor. This approach has definitely helped me in my twenty-two years of policing in the City of Manitowoc! Without a doubt, Skip had a profound impact on me and hundreds of other officers and deputies throughout Northeast WI. May Skip rest in peace and may God bring comfort to all of you!

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Scott Praefke

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Ryan Praefke

SHELTER FROM THE STORM: (O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTIAN!)
A MARITIME DEDICATION TO THE PRAEFKE FAMILY SHIP CAPTIAN, OUR FATHER AND YOUR FRIEND, CAPT. ALLEN (SKIP) PRAEFKE II
AS REMEMBERED BY: RYAN S. PRAEFKE, AGE ELEVEN AT THE TIME OF
THIS FISH TALE AND STORY OF SURVIVAL ON PALMER LAKE

One autumn day in 1985, my father and I encountered perhaps the most spectacular weather event, dare I say weather phenomena he and I ever experienced. At least together. I was all of eleven years old on that day. It was early October and I was fishing with dad, just the two of us on the open waters of Palmer and Tenderfoot in northern Wisconsin. Prior to that day most of my fishing history had taken place on Grandpa and Grandpa Lake, two private lakes at “Spirit North,” “Dream Acres” at the time of this story. One lake has some decent size, 10 or 12 acres. The other one could easily be mistaken as a water hazard at the nearest public golf course, a flooded backyard in the more remote regions of rural America, just a lot deeper. Much deeper especially toward the middle which makes the smaller lake on our property a whole lot scarier, an aquatic mystery as well surrounded by bog and thick marsh. The only way to traverse to Grandma Lake is by way of an old wooden footpath constructed not unlike planks of an old pirate ship, laid across the marshland in ten or twelve-foot sections until reaching the tinier lake of the two tucked behind an outcropping of old tamaracks and scrub pines.
As kids, the lakes on our property were our very own paradise, a private playland stocked with northerns and perch, too – decent fishing especially in the early evening hours, spotting dad at many-of-twilight casting off the pier, typically casting two different rods and differently sized and colored baits just to see what’s biting, see what he can catch – see what’s actually out there?
As adults, a private playland and paradise, too.
The bigger lakes dad and I were fishing that autumn day were located on state maps, at least with ease and not reading glasses. They were officially named and recognizable, too. They weren’t named after our Grandpa (Allen Lake) or his mother, “Old Mossback” – our father’s grandmother. But what I’m about to share is no “tall-tale” or a cliched “fish story.” Rather, it’s “Moby-Dick” with less harpooning, carcass parts and royalties. Our “White Whale” when we woke up that morning was replaced with a fresh water monster, a fish at best no bigger than half the size of a boat ore. The musky, the muskellunge. Even more specifically Grandpa’s record catching tiger musky on June 17th, 1948 – the early summer day Grandpa Praefke famously christened our father, Allen Frank Praefke II “Skip, Skipper of the boat!”
Fun fact, the Wisconsin state fish. Another fun fact, the musky is also related to the barracuda. But the “white whale” Herman Melville brought the surface both metaphorically and physically was a desire beyond “actuality,” a redemption story for one’s own private reasons and motivations. The larger goals in life leaving man little rest or even explanation until finally accomplished or surrendered respectfully as a deed worth dying for – providing a man purpose, along with our very own private pursuits. Our mission in life, our very own private or publicly declared “White Whales.”
In Melville’s masterpiece, The Pequod had tall sails and sleeping quarters and sizeable hull that would’ve sliced up the Palmer Lake boat landing to pieces. We were renting a fourteen-foot aluminum craft that day, a typical rental from Trails End Resort. A stern, bow and three benches down the middle. If I recall the little fishing boat dated back to the 50’s. The rental wasn’t the flashiest, fastest or roomiest vessel out on the chop that crisp morning but it seated two, came with an anchor and floated. A luxury liner for an impressionable kid. It’s all we really needed, too.
Every seaworthy vessel needs its “Ahab,” Captain Ahab specifically. For me and my brothers, it’s dad. It’s always been dad. Anyone else at the wheel or throttle would look wildly out of place, entirely unnatural, a lot less funny and interesting, too. Even a little neurotic with faults, quirks and idiosyncrasies but overall unfamiliar, an imposter smoking the wrong brand of cigar and drinking out of the wrong coffee thermos. Wrong thickly cut sausage sandwich on whole wheat, multigrain or occasional pumpernickel bread. Wearing the wrong fall coat, hat sunglasses. Wrong grayish stubble, stories and laugh. That’s our father’s seat! That’s our father’s spot! Dad’s rightful place motoring over the open waters of Vilas County. Drifting and anchored, too. A great American sailing classic in the 20th century. “Skip, Skipper of the boat” in the 20th century.
So, I guess you can call me “Ishmael,” the junior member of the crew. The narrator, too. I was eleven years old when dad and I shoved off that early October morning, untying the ropes from the dock but not before fastening Grandpa’s old Mercury six-horse outboard if I recall correctly but regardless fastening a boat motor of some type to the stern, visibly scratched-up and very aged aluminum. The motor was of course a pull-start. After fully secured it still took dad four or five strong yanks on the motor before coughing up a cloud of exhaust and firing-up. Dad was doing a lot of work, rechecking the gas tank, fuel lines and tackle boxes, including the bag of backup clothes and sucker fish, an averaged sized sucker picked up at Whitey’s earlier that morning. I was stored away in the minnow bucket although I’ll admit a bit cramped. Making sure the six or seven rods were secured tightly, the small and larger net within reach and boat anchor, a hunk of cast iron shaped like a mushroom and half-a-mile of rope was not in the way. We puttered away from the dock, Grandpa’s six-horse sounding like an old relic of the Great War, siphoned from the bottom of the North or Baltic Sea shortly after Kaiser Wilhelm II abdicated the German throne.
“Praefke” is a Germanic name, too. Other than Hamburg, I’m not entirely sure where the other “Praefke’s” or “Prafka’s” were located throughout the Deutschland, specifically when Germany declared war on France and Russia in the summer of 1914. But it wasn’t all quiet on the western front by the following fall. Which side our German side of the family fought on is entirely unknown, along with how man had already booked passage and immigrated to the United States long before the Archduke of Austria was assassinated in Sarajevo. All we know is the after the “Prafka’s” reached Ellis Island and witnessed our last name add two additional “e’s,” the first “e” completely unnecessary and the second “e” changing the very pronunciation. Many originally settled in upstate or western New York or rural Ohio before eventually moving to eastern Wisconsin, specifically the Milwaukee and southern Ozaukee Country, at least the majority of “Praefke’s” when Grandpa Praefke, Allen F. Praefke I and two sisters (one older/one younger) were born.
Anyway, I’m not sure the eleven old-year old me was aware of this family history. Most likely I knew we were essentially German/Irish/Welsh with a last name typically mangled by most teachers on the first day of school.
But the eleven-year-old “Ryan” never forgot that awesome day in fishing with my dad. It was just the two of us on a glorious autumn day, sparkling morning light, long shadows and a slight fog lifting off the water. When we first walked out onto the pier, the sun was still trying to peek over the taller pines, slowly rising above the eastern shoreline. A handful of clouds dotted the light blue sky, winds tussling the tops of the taller trees. Coat weather, thick coat weather but comfortable, very comfortable. Feeling very lucky, too.
Well, if you’re travelin’ in the north country fair
Where the winds hit heavy on the borderline
Remember me to one who lives there
She once was a true love of mine
It was perfect football weather, too. Perfect weather to be excused for a couple days of school as well. It was the Thursday and Friday before that weekend in early October, two whole days off and the excuse wasn’t for Thanksgiving, snow days or something silly like parent/teacher conferences. It was for fishing with my father, a father/son fishing trip, a time-honored tradition no one seems to make the time for these days. So yes, I was feeling lucky even though even at eleven I knew being a great-outdoorsmen was probably not in the cards. A master fisherman, hunter, camper, survivalist, carpenter, farmer or even father-figure, essentially a real outdoors enthusiast armed with a single-shot rifle over my shoulder, two hidden Bowie knives and even my father’s camera he bought in the service.
When we first pulled into parking lot of Trails End Resort, I remember immediately slipping out of my seatbelt and running down a very small hill littered with pines until I reached the dock. It wasn’t too uncommon a kid my age to act with wild abandon, see something shiny and make a full out sprint without giving common sense or personal safety even a second thought.
I wasn’t totally reckless as a kid. Not hard to hold or handle but not always heaven sent either. I had a temper, explosive anger issues even at a young age made me look like a bitter old asshole, especially when throwing hissy-fits over going to church or swimming lessons at the local YMCA. I didn’t have in a care in the world when it came to passages in the Bible or passing swimming tests when I couldn’t do breaststroke. I was mainly more mischief than menace, more of an impressionist than anysense of originality but that didn’t mean I didn’t always have one foot hanging off the merry-go-round. I’ve dragging my feet ever since I was first released from St. Joseph’s Hospital, exiting through the entrance of the pediatric wing and essentially heading the wrong direction ever since.
Standing on the pier in the fall of ‘85, I could see even without squinting clear across to the other shoreline of Palmer Lake. Although I could still hear my dad in the parking lot beginning to unpack, but I immediately didn’t dart up the hill. I knew I should’ve been helping, in fact I knew I should’ve been standing beside the big brown rather than already standing on the pier, bring nothing down, taking nothing back, an entirely wasted trip except for the photograph I snapped of Palmer. I thought of myself more of a sketch artist rather than a famed photographer in a popular city park. I have a memory, a rather good memory. Parts of me felt like an old soul, always slightly out of place but still finding my spot. Other parts of me felt not even eleven. But right before hightailing up the hill to help out my dad, I felt a wave. It was a wave as natural as the ones lapping along the shoreline. There wasn’t anything truly special about me at age eleven. A large part of me always felt restless. Another part of me felt even shy, too. I don’t believe it always takes an adult to sense something awe-inspiring. I was surrounded on each side by entire forests bursting in all sorts of blazing colors. A thunder blast of tall pines and colorful leafy trees as far as the eye could see. I wasn’t just looking at one or two trees in a suburban front yard. I was gazing out an entire deep blue sea of rich reds and brighter oranges, bright yellows and richer purples. It was like seeing the natural pallet of God’s artistic eye but flipped backwards, a point of view only mortals and other men are allowed to appreciate. Even the tamaracks dotting certain pockets along the shore were dressed in bronze, a mustardy gold.
It’s incredible how alive the world still feels in early autumn, a planet perhaps at its most vibrant right before natures best is blown from its branches, snapped off from their life source only to fall gracefully, almost gingerly to the ground. Leaving any forest floor an ungodly wet mess, a heavy carpet mixed with all sorts of dying and fading colors. Little rodents, too. There was “frost on the pumpkins” and the ’85 Packers that week were 1-3 and getting ready to host the Lions at Lambeau that Sunday. It was Lynn Dickey final year under center. Brett Favre was 15 years old. Aaron Rodgers had just turned 1. Fortunately, the “Majik Man” was the starting quarterback at the University of Virginia, a sophomore or junior in college and a year away from declaring for the draft.
The ground grows hard during this time of year. If not covered with a light dusting by Halloween buried underneath one to three inches of snow. Most of the snow lake-effect, too. But winters in the north country were never intended to feel like a vacation at Disney World. Truthfully, anyone whosever received mail, Lyme’s disease or a drunk driving citation in America’s Dairyland knows exactly the wintry scene I’m trying to explain. Perhaps I’m homesick? Nostalgic? A sentimental softy in my old age. Perhaps. Or maybe I just really miss my dad. Miss days like these when we went fishing.
Winters in Wisconsin is perhaps nothing more than a desolate wasteland of heart disease, salted sidewalks and serial killers – shivering, chapped lips and frostbitten fingers and thumbs, especially if the Packers fail to make the playoffs. It’s like declaring war against Russia, opening up another front on the 50th anniversary of Coach Lombardi’s passing. You’ll never feel a kiss as cold as the kiss upon your brow and cheeks while lying alone on Valentine’s Day. It's enough to cause the sweetest housewife in Whitefish Bay to rewatch the first two seasons of “Making of a Murderer” for the third time since the shutdown. Winters in Wisconsin. It’s a wild scene, especially north of Wausau.
Eventually I did help my father load up the boat, double-checking I was told to bring, back-up sweater or sweatshirt, gloves and hat. Even a snack, specifically lunch. It would be nearly impossible even for a restless kid like me to forget how that day truly felt, slowly motoring away from the docks that fall morning. after a couple minor stalls and coughs even, the exhaust appeared to clear. It sounded clean. It sounded smooth. Fishing with dad instead another spelling test in school, breathing in air so crisp and clear and early enough to see your breath. It was a perfect day.
And what a day it was.
It did not take long for the handful of cabins at Trails End to fade into the forested shadows along the shoreline. We were finally motoring toward Snider’s Bay, dad’s usual first spot to wet a line on Palmer. “If the fish don’t bight right away,” dad liked to inform his fellow fishermen, pulling out his first cigar of the day from one of 9 or 10 pockets just in his coat. “Depending on the winds, Ry, we’ll move closer to shore and anchor. If that doesn’t work, then we’ll had back out and make a couple drifts between these two points and weed bed.”
Snider’s Bay turned up nothing. Dad did a couple drifts, repositioning the boat a handful of times but got frustrated with the winds. For the next hour or two, I did my best not to keep snarling up my lines or reel as dad continued to cast for musky, launching what I can only compare as jumbo brat-sized baits halfway across the lake. The lure of the white whale, freshwater fish and musky – even a little sucker fishing as iron clouds began to build to the north and west
But clouds appeared typical, none threatening perhaps two counties away, so we lit-out for Tenderfoot. A lengthier channel connects Palmer Lake and Tenderfoot, the latter of the two straddling the states of Wisconsin and Upper Michigan. Beside the Menominee and Brule Rivers, the two states are primarily separated by an artificial map line. Upper Michigan once was a part of Territory of Wisconsin, however a large chunk of the land was turned into a consolation prize and eventually given to the territory of Michigan. It was the result of the Battle of Toledo, a three-day dust-up in 1836 over the port town of Toledo. There were no reported causalities but in the end the Lake Erie port-town was awarded to the state of Ohio, the consolation prize of the land in the northern Wisconsin territory offered to the territory of Michigan.
I’m pretty loyal to the Wisconsin/Michigan state line. I love where Land O’ Lakes in on the map. Right on top. Spirit North, like Santa’s Workshop right at the top dog on the world map. Can’t miss it. Can’t always find it either. Anywhere else along Highway 45 you might as well be Antigo or Elcho with is nicer golf course at Gateway, Land O’ Lake’s answer of The Overlook Hotel in The Shining. The “snowmobile capital of the world,” Eagle River to the south, the Paulding Light to the north.
Let’s talk Beavers. At some point during the leisurely ride through the channel a hump of logs and mud logs will appear on the surface, eventually, mud beaver damn will come into a view. Some years you go left, other years you go right, one year I don’t think a damn even existed but I do think it’s amusing the DNR has been locked in an endless feud with a family of bucktoothed home builders for decades. Damning rights, river rights, boating rights, trapping rights -- wondering every spring if it’s time for another stick of dynamite or stiffer “no-wake zone” penalties between Palmer and Tenderfoot? Either way, one of America’s largest rodents has won, prime real estate with plenty of space to expand, remodel or even relocate, a sizeable damn made by beavers that’s come to define the navigational ease and route of the channel since my very first aquatic trip between the two lakes.
Entering Tenderfoot Lake after the long channel ride is like an unveiling party, just a beautiful panoramic view of a freshwater lake in the Upper Midwest. It actually feels like you’ve entered another state, another state of mind with deeper waters and history along the shoreline. About a half-hour on Tenderfoot, the winds across began to pick up. It also dropped 6 or 7 degrees. The sky grew cloudy, stony gray. Soot black in the distance. Waves grew higher, too. They began to rocked the boat a bit but not enough to cause worry or alarm at that point. In fact, the big glorious sun was still shining bright in another corner of the sky, the direction I was facing. East. The rays of light were comforting, bouncing off the heightening ripples, pools and plops against the aluminum. The rhythm of the waves was no longer random, they were regular and revealing. Beginning to collide and then crash harder, and harder, and harder against the gun-metal gray vessel. For an 11-year-old boy, the percussion was hypnotic, drumming at knee-level creating another state of mind as well. The heightening sprays began to dampen my seat cushion, old blue-jeans and boots. So curious and unique the crashing if not careful could send any boy into a trance, especially in the bow where the fourteen-footer was at its narrowest.
So, I just watched kept both my eyes on the captain of the boat, my captain come rain or shine or whatever ungodly weather was blowing through the north-woods like a preview of that unsettling yet exciting afternoon. Where the rocks along the shore grew bleak, the woods dark and grey miles from the nearest town, an atomic sky before snowflakes fell onto my hat. My captain was still trying to assess the wind direction and cloud formations in the skies to the north and west of us. I can’t recall if he brought a radio along that day or not but I’m certain we never once scanned a dial for breaking news or weather reports that morning or afternoon. That would’ve been way too easy, a lot less fun, too.
I had a fishing pole in one hand and a Snickers Bar wrapper in the other. I looked like an eleven-year-old, felt like an eight-year-old, too. Plus, dad and I didn’t see one crappy fish all that morning or early afternoon. Nothing. Not even a follow or swirl near a lilypond. It’s like the fish new something, lost their appetite, too. Didn’t seem like a priority by that afternoon or even to this day but even an 18-inch skinny northern will bite the bait on a cloudless summer day.
The fishing pole was still clutched in my one hand, the Snickers Bar wrapper once in my other was now floating on the bottom of the aluminum boat. There was a river of rain water and spray from off the lake forming at the base of our feet. It ran down the middle of the entire fourteen feet craft, also noticeably larger than when we first shoved off earlier that morning. The Snickers wrapper was a nice touch I guess, my so-called “footprint” from the places I’ve been, places I’ve left and places I’ve littered, mistakenly or otherwise. At the end of my fishing pole was about a foot-and-a-half of fishing line dangling in the wintry breezes, I’m however unable to recall if it was either a dead minnow, a Red Devil lure, or a weed was still attached to the end of that line. Just bobbing and weaving in the chilly breeze.
Dad was still assessing the situation, not saying anything decipherable and losing confidence fast, especially after witnessing two storm clouds move erringly across the sky, lower like a freight elevator until almost touching the lake and take a seat. The goddamn winter storm dad and I were both witnessing in early October was now sitting right over Tenderfoot. You didn’t trust it but you could almost touch it, practically taste it, too.
But things were still happening, a lot of things and they were happening all around us! I just kept tight to my seat at the bow, both hands gripped to aluminum base of the seat as well, anything to maintain balance and possibly from being blown away. There was no point staying on Tenderfoot any longer. Beaching the boat on the nearest shore or even campsite and waiting out the storms on land seemed like a decent option, like a Lewis and Clark adventure. But the air was so wet and heavy and felt like it could easily hail as well. The day was already requiring a complete change of clothes. Dad fired up the six-horse and only four sounded ready to ride. The Merc puttered a bit but finally felt the spark. Stayed turned on, too, at least while puttering toward the channel. But I had faith in that old engine propeller, it was the pull start that I loathed.
It was good to get out of the wind, at least for twenty or so minutes, too.
It was barely 2:00 in the afternoon and it was so goddamn dark. It didn’t make a lick of sense. The winds picked up again, whipping across the lake surface like the hand of a savior but that didn’t help matters much. It just got colder; a lot colder. For a moment there was a stillness in the wind, a stillness in the wind many southerners would say before the hurricane begins. Then it began sleet, even snow like I predicted.
It was time to go! We could only go so fast with our little 6-horse but we did our best to make up a little time in the channel.
The mighty motor roared, more or less coughed as we entered Palmer Lake. That’s when I remember turning around to size up the distance between the mouth of the channel and dad’s van in the resort parking lot. I felt very much eleven years old. A howling wind was the sole sound, the pines along the shore began to bend, lean side-to-side and circle back, like they were all doing a poorly choreographed dance at such great heights.
So, I just kept my eyes trained on the captain’s whiskered face, wishing nothing more than to feel like the most loyal sidekick or capable second-mate in my father’s eyes that day.
It goes without saying everything went to hell right around the moment the winds got menacing, the clouds darkened and felt a couple raindrops on my face. Just when you thought the skies were going to open up and pour, I spotted my first snow flurry. Spotted our first whitecap, too. All I can say or remember, it was navigated with relative, at least considering the surrounding the skies, a storm still barreling down from the north/northwest but once we’d reach Palmer the idea is to go all the way to boat landing or Trails End Resort clear on the other side. Hell, or highwater or I may have made that up, but dad recently recounted his thoughts at that very moment and second-guessed his earlier judgement. Rather risking the lives of everyone on board, me for instance and of course my captain. Now dad said sometime later in early 2023 around his 75th birthday if he could do it all over again, he would’ve beached our little rental boat at the only campsite along the channel and waited out the storm rather than tangoing with the monsoon ready to erupt out of the north and the western skies, becoming apocalyptic of course just when the boat motor first stalled. Waves already so high everything in the vessel was sliding between my seat and dad’s seat way on the other side. It was all very confusing for a highly imaginative kid gripping the aluminum seat beneath until white knuckling through my kid gloves and hearing the propeller for the first time whizzing through the air, not beneath the water. There might as well been an iceberg, a luxury liner in the north Atlantic in April had nothing on fresh water lake in the northern Wisconsin in early autumn.
Well, if you go when the snowflakes storm
When the rivers freeze and summer ends
Please see if she’s wearing a coat so warm
To keep her from the howlin’ winds
The sky grew stormier by the second, storms seemingly coming from all directions. With every gust of wind, the waves just grew larger, deeper and stronger, even meaner, experiencing waves on each side and in front suddenly larger than our little fishing boat. The undercurrent would force the waves to pile up and split, causing the aluminum boat to pound the troubling surface – dad doing his best to angle the boat just correctly, like reentry into earth’s atmosphere just less math. But were not to be drowned that day, flipped over or torn in half – we would not go under! Dad said years later that he learned how to hit the top of the waves just right, almost like running through snowdrifts. The last thing dad wanted was being swamped by the next whitecap, sadly sending little me and my float cushion overboard first.
The front of the boat where I was sitting at times would shoot straight-up in the air, other times lost beneath the sizable force of another crashing wave. The little six-horse motor on the rental boat kept stalling out, dad somehow always able to get it back started, the propeller spinning wildly when out the water, the smell of gas and oil and motors flooding. Although as scary as the voyage appeared, I had a feeling of safety the entire time, even though it felt more like the White Star Line in the north Atlantic than Indian summer in God’s Country. A feeling of genuine safety the whole entire time but I don’t take that feeling for granted. It’s also the God’s honest every kid should feel with their father, especially in times of trouble and that afternoon there was definitely one of those troubling times.
I don’t how or why, but I always knew we’d somehow make it back to Trails End Lodge. I know I can say that now with a certain amount of confidence but I remember every hard crashing wave, spray of chilly water and time the motor stalled out that afternoon. I swear to Simon the Fisherman before he became Peter the Rock. No matter how rough, mechanically challenging or naturally enormous the situation, I always imagined us coming out the other side safe and sound, standing on the pier at Trails End Lodge more relieved than anything, perhaps damper than usual as well but ultimately relieved.
When the motor stalled out for the second or third time, barely half-a-football field out of the channel that’s when weather really showed its teeth, snapped and snarled. It was honestly kind of neat but not the time to offer my opinion on the weather, at least saying how “neat” it was that day. The skies were bearing down on us like an angrier God of shipwrecks with a surprise in the five-day forecast. Its true force and intentions were enormous and that’s not just the eleven-year-old in me reflecting, it absolutely was a shit-show of a storm by every degree, wind direction and breaking wave. You could tell the waves were getting higher based on the louder thuds as the boat would head straight into the air, dangle me out over the stormy whitecaps for a second or two before crashing back to Palmer’s hard surface – the thuds sounding more into an open-palmed slap between aluminum and stormy waters. The spray was unavoidable, sopping wet by the fifth tough landing.
Couldn’t turn east toward shore fear the first wave would capsize the 14-footer. Couldn’t turn around for fear of the very same result. The motor kept stalling but idling in the largest wave pool inside our boat outside of Dunkirk or even Wisconsin Dells. The sound of that damn propeller spinning like a metal pinwheel when my end of the boat went down into the valley and dad’s side, the stern shot straight up out of the water. The sound of those three blades spinning crazily in the air was a noise, its remained a sound I’d never forget. The whirring comparable to perhaps only to landscaping equipment with either nothing to left to cut or another reason to keep running. It was that crazy, just me and my captain and plenty of open water between the next crashing wave and any assemblance of safety.
Initially, my instinct was to sit next to dad, even asked once and asked a second time by yelling. All dad did was smile worryingly, yet confidently, saying its okay to feel scared but said he need me “to stay put” he shouted. “To keep balance in the boat.” He had a cop mustache back in those days, very mid-80’s at the young age of 35 or 36. Still a very young father. Everything he said made sense to me, even if I only heard every other word and boat propeller either spin crazily again or stall-out. Watching dad franticly yank on that old pull-start, hoping not to flood the engine if that was even possible on a 6-horse.
I was still very uneasy on my seat, shifting a little side to side but stabilized the best a prepubescent me could manage under such chaotic conditions. The pounding of the boat hitting the water, the boat at times nearing 45-degree angles or higher. Even somehow losing eyesight of dad at times. He said he lost sight of me at times, too. Based on visual physics alone, I’m not sure how we’d lose each other between waves, especially while sitting in the same unbendable, aluminum craft. But it happened, I know for a fact for split second or two I’d lose complete sight of dad. Then then the boat crash back to the surface, the spray would drench my face, another wave would turn the boat into another 45-degree angle before I got used to the taste of Palmer Lake water. I was sitting so damn still, almost woodened with my fingers gripping the seat so hard I believe it flattened my seat cushion.
Just me and my captain and early afternoon storm in early autumn. I thought to myself, I couldn’t believe dad got me out of school for this – I loved it!
Just when you thought early autumn couldn’t get any rougher, perhaps even give up their dead, everything in an instant seemed to explode in each direction, wilder than any carnival ride. The howling mouth of the storm suddenly no longer approaching but instead right on top of us. I’ll never forget seeing the rain once again turn to sleet and now snow, the winds from the north turning all the falling rain, sleet and snow into one voracious cocktail that stung the face, especially when our boat picked up speed. But we made our decision, at least dad did – I’m not sure what I was contributing at that point other than remaining in the boat but it was apparent we were gunning it for Trails End Lodge. We had no choice, not at that point. It was truly the point of no return. We honestly just wanted to get inside, inside anywhere because by that point anything outside no longer felt welcoming. Gunning it for Trails End Lodge also meant careening clear across the entire length of Palmer Lake, a rollicking quest straight to the docks along the familiar shore, with a shitty ass motor no less. Like I said earlier, feeling safe and sound the entire time, a clear sense of confidence with my very first captain, “Skip, Skipper of the boat” as his father christened him after his very own legendary fishing tale that took place to my right, the Skipper’s left
It was easily the largest storm I’d ever experienced; I know that doesn’t sound like much for an eleven-year-old but three and a half decades later I can honestly still say it was one of the scariest storms I’ve ever seen erupt without warning, especially while on water. The trashing waves, deeper swells and higher winds made any storm on land seem like child’s play compared to being on the water with an erratic motor but I was riding with the “Skipper,” the “Skipper of the Boat” and his father, my grandfather could not have been prouder of his only son in the eye of the storm.
The waters we were crossing that afternoon were plenty large, especially for little ole’ me and my wet coat and winter cap. I knew no artist was going to write a song about our harrowing adventures that day of the but we also had no plans going down with the ship, sinking or even being steered of course. Songs like “The Wreck of thee Edmund Fitzgerald” are typically saved for tragedies; this was going to be a battle with mother nature we were determined on not only to survive, but conquer with driest possible clothes under those conditions, especially with an outboard motor increasingly uncooperative the further we adventured into troubling waters.
It was impossible to miss the weather pattern changing every ten minutes in northern skies, the entire weather system was right above us. It was all around us, too! The winds kept slashing across our faces, natures whims in the wilder north country, saddled with a motor that kept stalling out, seeing dad from the tiny bow of the boat fumble with the choke and the chord and praying for the best when the propeller was no longer behaving. It wasn’t the easiest task but somehow, dad was always able to restart that old outboard. Remembering how hard I had to grip the little metal seat at the front of the boat, knuckling down like a rock climber to remain in one place, at least not tossed over the side or even to the floor of the fishing boat. I was determined to remain in one place, upright no matter how wet and frightened I grew but like I said earlier, safe – safe as Moses in the arms of Pharaoh’s daughter on the shores of the water so wide.
I’m a-wonderin’ if she remembers me at all
Many times I’ve often prayed
In the darkness of my night
In the brightness of my day
We were rocking like old time whalers, ducking our heads while repositioning our bodies to maintain the balance, cutting across Palmer Lake. But the weather it only grew worse, severely worse at times, typically when the motor wasn’t working. That was a noise no kid could ever forget, the whirling a metal propeller out of the water, just spinning its blades in the open air, at times three or four feet above the water line. I’ll stand by that math, too, because I was naturally much shorter at that time, so my estimations might reflect my age and size, including an occasional sense of doom when I realized how tiny our little fishing vessel began to feel in the stormy waters.
The motor would stall again, again and again, making things all the trickier the more both ends of the boat rose above the watery surface. I remember peering at the two wooden ores secured loosely on the sides of the little aluminum craft and wondering when it was time to give up on the failing motor and begin rowing? When did the crew on the Titanic realize it was time to lower the life boats? Typically, when it’s too late, however not late enough to avoid suffering but just late enough impossible for any human soul to survive.
But that wasn’t going to be us that awful autumn afternoon, not this father and son team as my father continued to refire up the motor and keep us hurdling forward as I remained absolutely stoic at the front of the boat, doing next to nothing to assist other than not going overboard. That was essentially by only job, remain inside the vessel until we reached shore. There’s nothing like feeling at the mercy of an unfriendly storm, it’s either the scariest experience of any young man’s life or a thrill ride like no other roller coaster or Evel Knievel canyon jump, the bumpiest boat cruise in Vilas County history, a shaky ski lift with snow flurries and waves either right in your face or at times high above your head, or at least that’s how the ice-cold waters felt to me.
Somewhere between all the bouncing in the boat dad promised me a full-rack of ribs at Archdale’s. He grinned when he made the promise. Truthfully I remember the grin more than the meal but at the time I just kept imagining those tasty ribs served at Archdale’s, a plate of bony meat smothered in the sweetest sauces next to actual candy, hoping we just make it because I was motivated by mealtime. That was my entire focus, the ribs I planned on ordering for dinner and of course, my faith in my captain, o captain! Our fearful trip is not yet done. Our so-called ship has weathered almost every rack, mechanical failure and weather forecast, survival was still the prize we sought since we first realized a storm was fast approaching, wondering if we should do one last musky drift across these rocks before we head in? “Thirteen more casts, son, thirteen and then we’ll head in, I promise,” I can hear my father say, not much smoking a cigar but chewing it, unable to even keep the soggy thing lit the harder it rained. That’s when the fun was just beginning, but it goes without saying the fun didn’t stop until we reached the Trails End Lodge, fastening the boat with a double-knotted sheepshank to the side of pier to keep the damn from being flipped upside down or through the kitchen window of one of the handful of cabins located along the lakeshore. We eventually made it, we eventually dried off, too.
You never know how far from home you’re feeling until you notice pine trees twice the size of houses in the neighborhood tottering in the winds. Decades later there are times I hear up north its snowing but I wouldn’t know it along the gulf shores where my windows are wide open. But I am truly a Wisconsin kid, missing the familiar highways, city names and faces of my home-state. Just like that small valley behind the old cabin we always thought was haunted, summers end in Wisconsin come faster than we wanted.
Well, if you’re travelin’ in the north country fair
Where the winds hit heavy on the borderline
Remember me to one who lives there
She once was a true love of mine
Dad may or may not have said as we approached his old brown van, “Don’t tell your mother about everything we experienced today,” and I knew exactly what he meant. I knew how to keep a secret, especially the good ones and for the next decade and a half dad took me everywhere and I loved it. Learned everything about people, life stories and the price we pay. The laughter, wisdom and occasional regret shared by old timers. Men my father liked to say, “They don’t make anymore.”
Well, one thing I learned meeting half the world by his side was there was never a man like our father before or after because if there was ever a man named “Skip” meant for genuine good times, conversations and such a familiar cackle it was our dad. Forever loved, forever missed, forever Spirit North. He also got me back safely that crazy late September day, a feeling every kid should feel about their father. I saw it firsthand during one hell of a storm when I was barely eleven but even back then, during that stormy afternoon I knew the captain, my captain and honestly felt safe the whole damn time. Riding a small aluminum boat like an angry bull across those rollicking waters. The rest of it just makes a better story, a fishing tale about survival and safety, a fish story with no fish starring a father and his first-born son.
Spirituality isn’t all about the sacrament or aroma candles, it can also be about working hard, against expectations, breaking lose from the chains some our born shackled to and others leave locked, locked around their feet, hands and imagination. It’s the harsh click made out of cast-iron, sadly left locked out of convenience and the opinion of others even when handed the key. Spirituality is also about leaving a better life for your children, by first breaking free of their own shackles and secondly, reinterpreting the challenging and the impossible and leaving next generation better prospects than as child he’d ever imagined. A better life for all that ever follow, I can’t think of anything more spiritual.
Our hearts are broken, our father is gone too but he’s not gone forever for our father will never be that far – far from our memories, far from our wishes, far from our whispered prayers for his presence and love. He’ll always walking beside us, walking beside us on that long driveway to Spirit North, whispering back, “Come on home, come on home. No, you don’t have to be alone, Just come on home.”
The truth of it all simply makes an impressionable kid trust their father even more, fully trust they will get them home safely, come rain or come shine – at the end of day home safe. Safe. That’s all we honestly want to feel in this life. Just safe.
“It’s beautiful,” a voice says.
“Yeah,” I respond. “It’s pretty good, isn’t it?”
“Just beautiful.”
I miss my father terribly but I wonder when he misses me does he remember when I was eleven? That may have been my favorite age, my favorite fishing trip and captain, too.
In the words of Walt Whitman,
O captain! My captain!
Our fearful trip is done
The ship weather every rack
The prize we sought is won
Our unbelievable dad. Men our father was more correct than he’ll ever know they truly don’t make anymore. But leaving us safe. A little sad but safe. Still safe. Still smiling, too because we grew up and were guided by “Skip, Skipper of the boat.”

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Shirley Warber

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Barbara Schmidt

So sorry for your loss and am wondering if Allen was related to my grandpa whose last name was Praefke and had a nephew by the name of Allen who was a musician whose parents were Art and Lucy Praefke?? Barb Schmidt-mouseandpops1959@gmai…

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Scott Praefke

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Mr. Allen "Skip" Frank Praefke, II

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