“Where did they go,” Chad asked.

I looked around but didn’t see them. Don and John were somewhere, but at the moment…

Earlier we reached our destination – Knife Lake.

Dave brought a map, and on the map were little red dots that highlighted the campsites on the lake. The map reminded me of one posted at work, except the red dots indicated the building’s exits. They also indicated that if you needed to consult the map, you probably didn’t remember how you got into the building.

To cover more ground Dave suggested splitting up. Don and John volunteered to head to the far end of the lake while Chad and I followed Dave to the closer campsites.

Lodging in the Boundary Waters is a bit different that reserving a suite at The Four Seasons. First of all there are no reservations. It’s first come. Also, there are no maids to make your sleeping bags and put mints on boulders. Some of the campsites we saw were less than ideal with grungy fire pits, more rocks than grass, and toilets that smelled worse than an Oklahoma feedlot. But eventually we found a site that had a nice shoreline with the campsite on a bluff. The fire pit was surrounded by smooth logs, there was a grassy patch to pitch our tents, and further in the woods, a toilet that didn’t overwhelm the senses. So we jumped into our canoes to find Don and John. And as we reached the middle of the lake, I started to grasp the vastness of our surroundings.

Knife Lake is immense, and in the middle of this gigantic lake sits the Isle of Pines, an island so big it looks like Knife Lake’s north shore.  There was definitely ample room on this island for the Boundary Waters most famous resident, Dorothy Molter, who became known for her rustic living, wildflower garden and homemade root beer.

You are probably wondering how someone ends up on a remote island in the middle of a national wilderness selling root beer. Did she arrive one day, look around and say, “Forget lemonade. Root beer is my fortune.” No, it wasn’t that straightforward. To tell Dorothy’s story is to tell the story of the Boundary Waters because the area did not magically turn into a federally protected wilderness. It took many years through multiple presidencies with tireless champions to mold this once exploited region. And when the process began, so did the life of Dorothy Molter.

• 1907: Dorothy Molter is born in Arnold, Pennsylvania.
• 1909: President Theodore Roosevelt designates an area in northeastern Minnesota the Superior National Forest, commemorating the moment by wrestling a bear.
• 1919: Dorothy moves to Chicago, Illinois, graduates from high school and begins to study nursing.
• 1926: The Department of Agriculture issues its first policy statement on the management of national forests.
• 1934: Dorothy Molter moves to Isle of Pines to work for Bill Berglund at his summer resort.
• 1938: The Superior National Forest changes its name to the Superior Roadless Area.
• 1948: Dorothy takes over the resort after Berglund’s death.
• 1949: President Harry Truman imposes aircraft restrictions in the Superior Roadless Area and commemorates the moment by taking a nap.
• 1958: The Superior Roadless Area changes its name to the Boundary Waters Canoe Area (BWCA).
• 1964: The BWCA is officially designated a national wilderness and the federal government begins the slow process of buying out the private landowners.
• 1975: Dorothy is no longer allowed to run her resort, but is granted a lifetime tenancy to her property, provided her homemade root beer isn’t an elixir for eternal life.
• 1975: The BWCA Act bans all motorized boats and vehicles.
• 1986: Dorothy Molter dies peacefully as the last resident of The Boundary Waters Canoe Area.

I tried to imagine life on an island with no plumbing or internet connection. I also wondered how a canoe could disappear from the middle of a lake. Don and John had to be somewhere. At least with Quynh we only had to wait for her to reappear on the Slippery Rock Trail, but how do you wait for someone who isn’t there? The only thing between our canoes and the horizon was sky-blue water. Where were they? Were they like Ron tucked behind a slot in a sea of machines…

My first night in Las Vegas was a failure. After losing all my money, I decided to get some sleep.

“I gotta go to bed,” I told Ron.

“It’s still early.”

It may have been but my wallet did not care. I wished Ron good luck and weaved my way through the sea of machines and onto a marble path, leading to a bank of elevators. I showed security my key card and slouched into the first open cab.

After a ten-minute walk down an endless hallway, I reached my room. I swiped the key card and…

Nothing.

Was my luck so unlucky that I couldn’t even open a door?

“You need to swipe the key card and wait for the green light,” I remember Chad telling me on a previous trip. So I swiped again.

No green light.

I swiped a little quicker, then slower, then…

We were told, when checking in, that our cell phones could erase the info on the key cards. I was careful to keep the two separate, but it wouldn’t be until day two that I realized the dime-size magnet in my money clip was the culprit.

After a twenty-minute stroll, I reached the Bellagio’s lobby with its magnificent Fiori di Como hanging from the ceiling. There was no one in line, so the night attendant quickly gave me the bad news.

“You are not on the list.”

“The room is under Ron’s name.”

“Yes it is.”

“And I’m his guest.”

“That is not on the list.”

I saw the direction of the conversation and had one question.

“Can I sleep in the lobby?”

“You need to have your friend put you on the list.”

I looked across the empty lobby leading to the casino floor.

“I have to go find him?”

The attendant nodded. So I headed to the casino. Only a handful of gamblers were at the roulette table. Fewer were playing black jack. A small crowd had gathered to play craps, a man with a midwestern bellow cheered the shooter, his voice following as I walked past the Petrosian Lounge with two nicely dressed ladies chatting with a salesman who wasn’t. I then reached the main floor.

It would take time, but eventually, I would find Ron.  At least we weren’t staying at Caesars.

Nothing better represents the glitz, glamor and gluttony of Las Vegas better than Caesars. Originally built in 1962 with Teamster (Mob) money, Caesars Palace has always been THE destination on The Strip. Evil Knevial jumped its fountain. The movies Rainman and The Hangover filmed in its VIP suites. It was my favorite place to visit on my first trip for it is not often you are greeted by a Centurion Guard. Other casinos may have storied pasts, but Caesars was not only still around, it had now had grown it into a city-state:

• Five towers containing 3,348 rooms.
• A casino floor with 129,000 square feet.
• A sports betting room big enough to hold the New York Stock Exchange.
• A cavernous theater aptly named The Colosseum.

And all of it was empty as I walked through its emptiness earlier in the day.

Maybe it was the off-season. Maybe it was the dusk of a new era. But what should have been a bustling hub of lost money and failed dreams felt more like a grand funeral hall for Russian aristocracy. Still, I continued to stroll in solitude until I realized I was no longer in the casino. Without even knowing, I had wandered into The Forum Shops, an exclusive showcase of 160 Boutiques, a significant upgrade to any suburban mall with soft pretzels, beanbag chairs and alpaca clothing. No, this was a shopping oasis for those who never flinch at the names of Bvlgari, Dior, Vuitton and Versace.

I walked past the stores with no intention of entering. I wasn’t the only one. They were hermetically sealed not by any physical barrier but by the lack of purchasing power by anyone who passed. Nobody was going to buy a dress that costs triple their airline fare. Nobody was going to buy a watch that cost more than their car. Maybe if someone won big, they could descend the escalator draped in Armani. But for the rest of us, with worn sandals, Old Navy tops and Guess jeans, we would remain on the outside, casting glances at the employees and their aging inventory.

I kept walking along the polished cobblestone, past alabaster columns and marble fountains under a dome of ethereal blue. The surroundings created the experience of being on a Roman street, but Rome never looked this good. Where was the dirt and piled garbage? Where were the buzzing Vespas and pickpockets? Walking through The Forum Shops was like being with the most beautiful woman in all the world, a flawless beauty except for one thing: she was a hologram.

I reached the end of my journey and came to a giant aquarium with exotic fish of bright orange, deep blue and canary yellow. They were almost too colorful, more colorful than anything found in the lakes and streams of the Boundary Waters. Maybe freshwater fish have to dull it down to stay hidden, but if you spend your life shrouded in complete darkness, maybe you can afford to show off.

A fish as flat as a pancake, blazed with streaks of green and viola, swam past, its mouth agape, eyes swirling. I wondered what it would be like to drift through dark, peaceful waters only to be yanked into the shining sun…

Chad and I had a perfect angle to see it: a fish fluttering only to disappear back into the water.

After John and Don reappeared from the long-arching bend of Isle of Pines, we set up camp, then onto fishing. Well, some of us fished. Chad and I were clueless. Don didn’t participate and Dave was new to the sport. Luckily, John was legitimate. Not only did he have the equipment. He had a pretty good idea how to use it. And that’s why he pulled a smallmouth bass out of the water.

A shot of excitement surged through our group. Instantly, John brought legitimacy to our trip. Dave said we would eat well as the bass lay spent in his hands, scales glistening.

We were impressed, but John shrugged off all compliments. The only thing he cared about was the next cast like Ron pulling a one-armed bandit…

Earlier in the day before I locked myself out of the hotel room I grabbed a seat as Ron played a slot called Let’s Go Fishing. And as I watched, a woman ventured over. She leaned in and asked, “How do you play this game?”

I whispered back, “I have no idea.”

I was clueless. I couldn’t even tell the difference between a win or a loss.

“Good job,” I said.

“For what,” Ron asked.

“You won.”

“No I didn’t.”

“But you had blinking and ringing.”

“Because I won 50 cents.”

“That’s big for nickel slots. Isn’t it?”

“Not when you gamble $3.00.”

“On nickel slots?”

Then Ron explained.

He told me he could play one nickel at a time and never win anything for the real money was in the bonus rounds. And the only way to get to the bonus round was to play the maximum bet $3.00.

Las Vegas may be the only place where a person can invest $3.00, win back 50 cents and the casino will still treat him like a winner. Luckily, Ron was winning more than losing. In fact, he was building a nice pile of cash.  He wanted to get into the bonus round where five fishing boats line up and a fisherman rows onto the screen to yodel, “Let’s go fishing!” Then five free spins with a chance to win a progressive jackpot.

On the first spin the fisherman pulled up a gar, the lowest progressive that netted ten dollars.

The second flushed out. Also the third. The slot spun again and landed on a perch, another low paying progressive, which Ron immediately gave the middle finger. After the final spin, the bonus round was done.

“You know what you need to do,” I said.

“What do I need to do,” Ron replied.

“Land the big one.”

Out of the five progressives, Ron had netted two fish. But what was the top prize, the fish worth $2,000.00 and climbing?

“Is it a shark or marlin,” I asked.

“Could be,” Ron answered.

“What about a whale?”

“Let’s stick with fish.”

Ron was on a hot streak, playing a machine that offered something rare – mystery. What was the big one as the five more boats lined up on the screen?

First spin…

Nothing.

Second…

Stupid gar.

The third didn’t pan out. But on the fourth Ron hooked a catfish for $500.00. But that was it. He had reached his limit and the big one would have to wait for another day…