They were in their 70s, Grandma and Grandpa, and canoe tripping. Both were born with paddles in their hands. And they came by their love for wilderness adventures from living in the Mesabi Iron Range of northern Minnesota, on the edge of the BWCA (Boundary Waters Canoe Area). Across the border was the Quetico Provincial Park of western Ontario, Canada. This area was and remains the unofficial canoeing capital of the world.

My grandparents had several watercraft. I remember the wooden canoe, which Gramps would soak in the small pond on his farm in the spring, causing the wood slats to expand and close the gaps, making the canoe more watertight. He did the same with his wooden boat, powered by the good old 18-hp Evinrude outboard motor. Yes, these were all elements of a heaven-on-earth experience for a young pre-adolescent boy in the early 1960s.

They also had a “metal” canoe, a Grumman aluminum, which I inherited much later. Stickers remain covering much of the bow, commemorating the many trips into the BWCA and Quetico, dated as early as 1955! That canoe didn’t need to be soaked, being of such advanced technology as it was for that day. This “new” model of canoe had been developed in 1944 as World War II was winding down, by the leading manufacturer of military aircraft and civilian aircraft, the Grumman Corporation. The company had converted some of its facilities to building aluminum canoes, as its president was evidently a canoeing aficionado, or at least had the insight for an emerging market. He had the good fortune to buy a famous canoe mold, which became the pattern for the ubiquitous present-day rental canoe design.

As for Grandpa, he had been an aviator during the First World War, so the connection between canoeing and aircraft was a natural for him. Canoeing grew in popularity with the mass production of these aluminum gems. Soon the saying became popular that canoes were “the poor man’s yacht.”) The quality aand durability of their construction is attested by the age of Grandpa’s canoe, now some 65-70 odd years old and still in good shape. It’s still a beauty, complete with scars from many adventures—and still quite seaworthy! It is currently living out its days at a Christian summer camp in the Adirondacks of New York (it is probably good for another 70 years or so).

It was that Grumman canoe, that Grandma and Grandpa preferred for their trips into the BWCA. Complete with a large canvas tent, fishing rods, Grandma’s 16 mm color movie camera, and plenty of muffins made in her kitchen, they would set out. Their only allowances for age, when they were in the 60s and 70s, comprised of a makeshift backrest for the front seat for Gram and a small, point 9 (that is, 0.9) horsepower outboard motor.

Portages were all done in one trip! That’s where you would get out of your canoe at the end of one lake and carry all your stuff overland by trail to the next lake. Lesser outdoorsmen would usually take two trips to get all their equipment over. But not this hardy couple. In one trip over the trail, Gramps carried the 60-pound Duluth pack on his back with a strap looped around his forehead, and another 75 pounds of canoe on his shoulders (paddles and life vests strapped in). Grandma carried the lighter stuff, including her pack and the small .9 horsepower outboard motor. Also, somewhere among their stuff was the canvas tent—you can imagine the weight of that! With age, I am sure they selected canoe trips with shorter portages.

On one outing, a ranger charged them with violating the new National Forest Service law against using motors on a lake they were traversing. After the young, clean-cut officer paddled away, Grandpa tore up the ticket, saying, “I’ve been canoeing these waters all my life, long before he was born; no young buck is going to tell me what I can or can’t do on these waters!” He never heard from the forestry service again. Dad’s best guess is that someone in the governmental hierarchy knew Grandpa and figured they would never get the money out of the old-timer, so dropped the issue.

One particular summer, our family (Jack, Jr. and the brood) made plans for our annual vacation up to Ely, the farm, and two weeks of what I had dreamed about for the previous 50 weeks. We arrived at the farm, like usual, driving down the long lane way from Minnesota Hwy 1, horn honking on our blue-and-white 1960s Chevy station wagon (with the backward-facing rear seat and a dropdown tailgate). That seat was the domain of my older brother Mike and me. That’s where we launched millions of spit wads through straws at road signs and the cars following us, ingested millions of comic books, held enumerable sibling squabbles, and nibbled on our endless cache of snacks.

That vehicle (precursor to the family minivans in wide use today) had a distinctive luggage rack on the roof, which Dad smugly called “the crown.” Complete with the sleek, iconic fins above the rear taillights (giving a touch of s futuristic look) and a big-block Chevy V-8, this gas guzzler was quite the workhorse for this family of six.

But one visit to the farm was not the usual; it was still and quiet upon our arrival, and no one was home. Usually, Grandma in her kitchen apron and Grandpa in his white tank-top T-shirt would hear the honking of our wagon and come out to where the farm road divide the house from the barn, to welcome us as we drove up with excitement. But this time we were met by an eerie silence. No message pinned to the door, no pickup truck in front of the barn, nothing. All was locked up, house, barn, everything.

Dad worried; something must have happened to them. He had sent a letter weeks before with our planned arrival date; and they had responded. First plan of action was to break into the house somehow. Dad found a ladder and put it up on the far side of the barn, where the second-floor double doors opened to what used to be the hayloft. (By that time the farm had long since moved on from being an actual working farm). Dad hoisted me up on the ladder with him (I was about 12 years old at the time) and pushed me beyond the top of the ladder, through the partially-off-its-hinges wooden door. I made my way past all the old furniture, the wooden ice chest, various other relics of the past, and the omnipresent cobwebs—a place I knew quite well from previous explorations.

Coming to a rectangular hole in the floor, I recognized the top of a ladder going down to the first floor. Descending into the dark abyss, my fear of what evil could be hiding down there was balanced by the bravery instilled in me that Dad chose me for this important job. Feeling around with my hands, I was able to find the room with Grandpa’s tools and the light switch by the door. Retrieving a ball-peen hammer (just where Dad said it would be), I scampered back up the ladder across the length of the hay loft, out the broken-door to my Dad waiting at the top of the outside ladder. By now we were hurrying because we didn’t know whether Grandma and Grandpa were in trouble inside the house. With a couple of well-aimed sharp blows to the archaic but working padlock on the barn door, Dad was able to “unlock” and enter the barn. From there, he found the hidden keys to the farmhouse. Entering the old family structure, we found no bodies—whew, that was a good thing! But Dad was still worried.

He called some folks who knew Grandma and Grandpa, and they thought maybe Jack and Gustava (Gramps’ and Grams’ names) might have gone out canoeing. This was before cell phones, and they could be out for the better part of two weeks, by which time we would be heading home already. What was a summer vacation without my Grandma and Grandpa?!? But, at least they were probably alive, though, as it turned out, memory had betrayed them of the dates we were to be visiting them.

Long story short: Dad called the local radio station, who put out an alert: “Jack Gianotti, Jr. is looking for Jack Gianotti, Sr. Please call home” (or something like that). Now, the town of Ely had a population of about 6,000, so visiting relatives who were missing their parents was newsworthy. Although Grandma and Grandpa had no access to a phone in the wilderness, they encountered someone on a portage who had just come from a lodge with radio access and heard the radio alert. Well, the two septuagenarian wilderness-wanderers made a hasty retreat and headed back to the farm; our two week vacation was salvaged!

One can forgive these two seasoned adventurers for getting their dates mixed up at their age. But canoe tripping in their 70s? They remind me of Joshua and Caleb in the Bible, who, at around 80 years old, were both warriors and able to lead God’s people into the Promised Land. I hope to follow the example of Grandma and Grandpa and go canoe tripping in my 70s. But more so, I want to be like Joshua and Caleb and continue serving the Lord and being a help to others well into my 80s and beyond.