Blessed by my minions

I had never had minions before.

Minions — as in the cartoon movie “Despicable Me.” The little yellow, cigar-stub-shaped guys with the big teeth and eyes (one of them has just one eye). They like bananas.

Mine were different. But they worked just as diligently to keep me comfortable, safe and happy.

Mine were Dan, Dave, Matt, Brad and Jeff: three sons, a son-in-law and a grandson. They took me on a four-day canoe trip in late July into the Boundary Waters, north from Ely, Minnesota, to a spot a couple of miles south of Canada.

The minion crew worked very hard, toiling in coach class. My seat was in the first class compartment, amidships in the center of a three-man canoe, watching the sky, trees, rocks and lakes glide by.

We (they) paddled north for five hours from our launch point near Ely, portaging twice, and making camp about 15 miles out on a small island at the far end of Basswood Lake.

The minions indulged my druthers.

They let me paddle the stern position when I asked, permitted me to do some of the cooking and pretended to listen to my suggestions on how and where to fish. I was able to get a fire started with wet birch bark the first morning in camp, after a steady rain during the night, for which they congratulated me approvingly.

The trip grew out of a column I had written several months earlier lamenting my expectation that I had taken my final trip into canoe country because of my age and my health history.

At a family get-together after the column appeared, they presented me with a miniature wooden canoe paddle, fashioned by Matt, which symbolized their pledge to take me on one more voyage into the wilderness out of Ely. They promised me they would spare me any exertion.

They made good on their pledge.

That first day in camp, Dan hauled out of his pack two lightweight hammocks and a lightweight folding chair, items that I never dreamed would be made available to me in the north woods.

They installed the hammocks between trees down by the lakeshore, and the chair was shifted between shore and campfire site as desired. They were for my use whenever. The minions employed them when I didn’t.

When I felt guilty about dogging it while they worked (a frequent feeling), they let me do the dishes. But when I didn’t do so, they did that too.

(Their courtesies did not extend to cards or chess games, though — Jeff beat me in all four of our rummy matches, and Matt, Dan and Dave handled me in chess.)

We spent a couple of memorable days at the campsite, fishing likely shorelines and weed beds and sharing thoughts around the fire on any subject that surfaced.

On the five-hour paddle back to civilization, as on the way in, all they let me carry on the portages were the fishing poles, the nets and my tackle box. Brad even insisted on carrying the paddles along with two heavy packs.

I could remember shouldering a canoe and a pack by myself on similar trips 50 years earlier. Those days were long gone. The poles, tackle box and nets were just fine this time, thank you.

My advice: If minions offer to cosset you into the wilderness, say yes.

It was magical for me.

May your minions treat you as well.