I will preface this article by saying I am not Finnish, nor do I pretend to be (however, I do have a second cousin who is half Finnish). I'm of Slovenian descent. And, Slovenians have a strange relationship with the Fins. Both Slovenia and Finland are considered the "greenest" countries in Europe--a dichotomy in itself since only one country can say it is the "-est" in anything. Depending on the source, you will hear some say Finland is the greenest and some will say Slovenia holds that title. Nonetheless, both countries are absolutely beautiful, mostly wild, and producers of fine fisherman (and rally car drivers, and skiers, and... well, the list could go on).
The relationship between the two countries gets interesting when we look at recent relations. A few years ago, the Slovenian government got itself into a bit of a pickle for under-the-counter deals with the Fins. Investigations turned up bribery deals made between the Finnish military arms manufacturer Patria and the Slovenian government. For those who don't know, bribing government officials to win contracts is a big no-no. So, tensions between the two countries rose.
But, I will say this, much of the tensions between the two countries are purely between the two country's governments. For example, when I arrived at Brnik Airport in Slovenia circa 2009--which was at the hieght of the much publicized Patria bribery debacle--I was surprised to notice that the young man executing my rental car contract was boldly wearing a Finland t-shirt. In big letters: FINLAND, broadcast across his chest. It was the kind of t-shirt I would expect to see in a tourist shop in Helsinki. This drove home a) that public relations between the two countries are fine; and, b) that perhaps more than anything the citizens of the two countries love to mock their governments. Understanding the message, I called him on his Finland t-shirt with a mild joke and those within hearing distance soon burst into laughter. The mood in the rental car hall switched to informal--as perfect strangers we all bonded around this--and the experience of renting a car was generally a happy one... and graduated on to further mockery of the car I would be driving.
Less contemporary, and associated with American culture, the Finnish-Slovenian relationship has a colorful past. Without getting into much detail, many Fins and Slovenians came to northern Minnesota a few generations ago to work in the iron ore mines that were booming at the time. The two groups became the predominant ethnicities in the area. But, as you can imagine, putting rugged individuals belonging to two very different and strongly defined cultures into the confined spaces of an underground mine didn't go so well. However, the pride these early workers had in working for a "top producer" mine trumped these differences; and, frictions shifted from which ethnic group one was associated with to which mine one worked in. In this context, the Fins and Slovenians who were working in the different mines bonded around being the best--and each of the mines basically were akin to rival football clubs competing with each other in categories such as "top producer", "purest ore", etc., etc.--anything that would increase bragging rights in town. This all became very valuable information when coming together to drink and banter at the local establishments such as: Zaverl's, Vertin's, Skala's, Jakich, Cat's Bar (Zgonc's), Agnich Saloon, Dee's Bar (Debelc's), Yugoslav National Home and others. However, the Finnish and Slovenian miners really came together when the loggers would come to town after getting paid. This is when pure mayhem (and this is no understatement) would break out. Puffed up loggers with fat wallets would storm into the local bars and banter with miners. Mixed with alcohol and occupational pride, the banter would escalate into fisticuffs, chairs getting smashed onto heads, and in extreme cases even murder. The brawls were legendary and one story includes a, shall I say slightly inebriated, Finlander punching out a Slovenian policeman knocking him to the ground. As the policeman lay on the ground spread eagle on his back he was then so unlucky to receive the Finlander's best Sebastian Janikowski right in the jewels (that little stunt lead to a bit of cage time).
So, I mention all this to establish that Finlanders and Slovenians share a history; and, really do have a rather interesting relationship. And, this gets me to Mojakka. My Slovenian father told me stories growing up about the legendary fish eye soup that the Finlanders made. His Finnish friends loved to tell him about this delicacy to do nothing more than to make him sick. It must have worked because he took pleasure in doing the same to me, telling these stories. As a result, I feared the Mojakka greatly--a fish soup that would look you in the eye before each serving. I would envision every spoonful of soup having an eyeball in it---and as I would blow the soup gently to cool it before sipping, the eyeball would roll about in the spoon but always maintain a locked-in gaze like the Mona Lisa. Repeat, one spoon at a time, until the bowl of soup was gone. This was Mojakka. But, my fear of the fabled Mojakka was lessoned when I had something quite similar (so it seemed) in Piran, Slovenia. The soup I had on the coast of the Adriatic was loaded with fish and seafood parts to go along with the fish meat that swirled about in the bowl around half opened mussel shells. With each stir I wondered what would rise up from the depths of this dish: gills, connective tissue, something mushy and unrecognizable, etc. But, I manned up and ate the dish. It was delicious. I am officially ready for Mojakka.
So as you know from my last blog I built a pulk sled--which is Finnish. And, I trekked into the wilderness with it and caught a fine lake trout through the thick ice. I thought, man, these Fins got it down. So, I decided to repeat this feat by going out again to the same spot, on would you know... St. Urho's Day. Of course, being the celebratory person that I am, I thought it would be nice to catch one more nice trout and use it to make the legendary Mojakka soup--something the old Finlanders in Ely called "Kala Mojakka". This would be a fine meal for an evening St. Urho's Day celebration.
For those who don't know, St. Urho's Day is a holiday that was developed in Northern Minnesota over half a century ago. It has since spread to Canada, the rest of the US, and Finland. Some take it seriously; but, for most it is a tongue-in-cheek holiday. The holiday honors the heroic St. Urho for driving out the menacing hoards of destructive grasshoppers from Finland's vineyards. His noted method of extermination, yelling "Grasshoppers, grasshoppers, go to HELL!!". More on St. Urho here: http://www.sainturho.com
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| Triumphant St. Urho with slain grasshopper. |
So, I loaded the pulk up same as the previous outing--albeit this time with another rucksack purchased from the military surplus store (I think this one is of Dutch origin so I call it the Blyleven). I filled out my wilderness permit at the entry point and then began to fuss with the pulk to adjust its contents into perfect position for the trek across the ice. A couple of pick-up trucks arrived at that point. The first one slowly nudging along side me and an older gentleman rolled his window down. "How far are you going in?" he said. I replied "Just a few miles to the north end of the lake" and kept adjusting things. His eyes scanned back and forth from bow to stern on the pulk which I was tending, as if gathering as many mental photographs of my homemade sled as he could in the time he had. "I've got some friends out on Ina Lake. I'm dropping a truck off for them." he said. I nodded. He rolled up his window. I waved. And, the two trucks proceeded out onto the ice and disappeared around an island. We shortly followed pulk in tow. I thought "Man, Ina Lake is in a ways... that's a nice little expedition. I bet they skied it with pulks. Lake trout for sure."
After some snowshoeing and pulka we soon passed where they had dumped the truck for their adventurous friends to return to. We kept trekking on and not too long after arrived at the same spot as last week. The snow where the portable shelter last stood was disturbed and I could see where the old holes where drilled. Quite a bit of snow had drifted into the old shelter site and I used my snowshoe as a shovel to clear the area. By now, the winds started to howl fiercely out of the northwest. I had to move quickly erecting the shelter because the winds were simply dumping more snow into the cleared area. A cold front moved through last night and the temperatures were hovering around zero degrees F. The wind on the point was hammering... and gaining strength. We anchored the shelter to the ice using a system of guys and metal anchors drilled into the frozen lake. The shelter stood it's ground but shook violently like we were camped out at 22,000 feet on Everest. Contents in the pockets built into the shelter walls rattled as the shelter continuously shook. The Marcum refused to show any fish moving through. We weathered it thinking the fish would eventually show. But they didn't, we only saw a few stragglers cruising along the bottom that stopped for a look at the bait and continued on their merry way. The wind continued to gain force. A look out the shelter's window showed multiple snow devils dancing and swirling about on the lake like it was a crowded dance floor during polka hour. A pileated wood pecker struggled to make way in the wind. The eagles hunkered down in a big white pine on the leeward side of the point. The lake had turned into a desert and we had a north country version of a sandstorm on our hands.
After a few hours of this the little propane heater began loosing ground against the elements. Frost built-up on the inside walls of the shelter, ice developed on the fishing lines, and we shivered. But, the final hour of daylight was our last hope for Mojakka. We jigged. We jigged some more. And, we kept jigging. Finally, a school of fish showed on the Marcum. I matched their depth with my jig and continued the "irresistible" motion of a lift-drop presentation. The lake trout hung a foot below the jig and watched--unenthusiastic about becoming St. Urho's Day Mojakka. I lifted and dropped, I thump-jigged, I snap-jigged. I let it sit. The laker sunk lower and lower and eventually swam away. Damn. I don't normally put trout in the same category as walleyes when it comes to weather-induced bitchiness. But, here you go. They did it. They became completely affected by the major cold-front and refused to bite. The only ones happy about this were the ciscoes--joyfully celebrating their St. Urho's Day cold-front freedom under the ice.
We shivered some more and jigged some more--until night fell. Only to have the same disinterested lake trout encounters. Not even a burbot was willing to save the day. My great-aunt (who is 100 percent Finnish) told us stories about eating burbot back in the day. Her first encounter with the fish was by a fellow fisherman who dropped off some mystery fish and refused to say what it was. He instructed her to just eat it and told her how to prepare it. "I'll tell you what it is after you eat it." he said. A risky proposition. Reluctantly she followed his instructions. The result was fish dining at it's pinnacle. She said the fish was amazing. Maybe even the best she has ever had--and for a Finnish gal that says a lot. Her fisherman friend visited a few days later, after he got word she ate the mystery fish offering. They discussed the meal and shared notes on its preparation and results. But, my great-aunt's curiosity became too much for any more small talk. "So what fish was it?" she said. The gentleman responded, "You're not going to believe it. Don't get mad at me. I never would have thought...." Impatiently she interrupted, "Well?!". "Lawyer fish" he said. "We've been catching some lately and decided to cook 'em up. They're so good we had to share. We didn't think anyone would believe us." My great-aunt was dumbfounded but much appreciative of the fish offering. This happened probably fifty years ago but she told the story recently with the same fondness as if it just happened. She is in her nineties now, sharp as a tack, and still looks out her window to check up on our cabin when we're not there. A special lady.
As we continue to force the issue, jigging relentlessly for lakers, our minds wander to stories like this. We hope for the burbot that will get us out of this mess. Or, maybe that lake trout that will for whatever reason decide to jump into the pot of Mojakka. But, today, it is wishful thinking. Sometimes in the Northland things just don't go your way and you have to accept it. We broke camp. The wind howled. Our bare hands froze as they struggled with tedious tasks like tying knots and fussing with snowshoe bindings. The sky was black now and we looked up to admire the uncountable number of stars. Each star looking down upon us like fish eyes swirling about in a giant bowl of Mojakka soup.
Everything Mojakka: http://mojakka.com
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