And then of course there are the fish.

Sue Sutton with a freshly
caught lake trout

It's impossible to starve here, because the fishing is spectacular by any standards. The record lake trout, netted in the 1960s, weighed 102 pounds. Some say it was a genetic freak, but it's not at all unusual to land a 30- or 40-pound trout. The northern pike are huge, too. On the north shore of the islands and in shallow bays, these prehistoric monsters lurk in the weeds, and in some areas it can be a job to find one small enough to eat. Once, I watched a five-inch pike hunting near the shore, a tiny, perfect predator. A black water strider skimmed the water in erratic jerks, and then simply vanished, victim of the freshwater barracuda.

In June and July the trout are in deep water, and it's hard work bringing them to the surface. My first big fish was a 25-pounder. Bringing it up slowly from 80 feet (so as not to rupture its air bladder), my arms and back begin to ache and then to scream. After we set the beautiful monster free I have to wait half an hour before I drop my line again. In early September, when they're about to spawn, they will strike at anything. One day I realize I don't have enough line on my reel, so while my companion casts for trout I start idly jigging with ten feet of line. Soon there are four or five monsters — 25, 30 pounds — swarming around the bright lure. They veer off when I jerk it away: It's more fun to toy with them this way than to actually catch them.

All of this vibrant life is packed into the brief time between the spring melt and the first snowfall, when birds and beasts must court, mate, and raise their young on a mercilessly tight timetable. There's still some snow and ice on the north shore in early June, and the water is bone-numbingly cold; in September it's time to dig out your mittens. Yet July and August can bring scorching days — hot enough to make taking a plunge in the chilly water irresistible. A few weeks later massive chevrons of geese are honking their way south, red squirrels industriously harvesting cones and the unmistakable scent of snow in the air. And then it's winter again. Time for the animals to hibernate, for the birds to head for warmer climes — and for us to go home.