A slim ray of sunlight crept through the curtains of our Virginia motel room. I read while waiting for Dashwa, my almost five-year-old son, to wake. He dressed quickly, excited to stop at the Sugar Shack. There Dashwa couldn’t decide between a snickerdoodle bar and a sugar cookie covered in colorful sprinkles. He chose the cookie, the bright colors suggesting wonderful tastes, eating while we drove.

After Dashwa finished I handed a red propeller to him. At one time I had three propellers, each brightly painted by my dad, who carved them. They were simple, yet amazing. A small dowel forms the shaft, a screw attaches the propeller, and a loop of rope secures it to the flyer’s wrist. Propellers provided hours of fun on road trips, all I had to do was stick my arm out the window.

Dashwa had never seen one of these propellers, though he had heard many stories about Grandpa Dick, who passed more than 30 years ago, yet is still present. I cautioned Dashwa to be careful; he now held something connecting our family through three generations. He put the propeller out the window, smiled, then gleefully laughed. The propeller made a poignant connection as it spun. I watched through the rear-view mirror, smiling broadly, tears welling up.

We arrived at Lake Vermillion’s Moccasin Point Landing. A couple loaded gear onto a pontoon boat for a tow, their rental canoe balanced sideways across the low walls. Two Northstar Canoes lay in the water, a party of four loading them. The lack of permit availability since Covid has driven many paddlers to explore the environs around Trout Lake, the largest BWCA lake I had not visited.