SOME DAYS ARE simply meant to be lived in north Wisconsin.

One event that transpired this last weekend was one that is always about the most exciting and revered day of the year for me. That would be the opening day of duck season.

But before I get to that, I need to back up to a day earlier. That perfect north Wisconsin day, I put the Old Town in the water for perhaps the last time this year.

The purpose was to put some fish on the end of the line for my niece’s husband and her uncle on her mother’s side. Both young guys in my world, somewhere in the early 60s neighborhood — and yes, that is young in my world — were looking for a fun day of fishing.

I chose one of my favorite fishing-for-fun lakes where there is always lots of action to be had. It takes a little effort involving a couple hundred yards of carting the Old Town along a narrow lane to reach the lake, but as usual, the effort was worth it.

We fished the old-fashioned way, a simple time-tested way. Two rods were rigged with 1⁄32-ounce jigs, tipped with chunks of nightcrawler and suspended by small bobbers. The other had my favorite bass lure — a simple, but really effective thing — tied at the end of 4-pound test line. Not to give away any secrets, but that unrivaled bass catcher is called a Mimic Minnow.

I generally go through at least a dozen every summer. It usually takes quite a few bass to tear up the uniquely shaped tail of its plastic minnow body apart, but when I use it to catch northern pike, for which it is equally effective, the flippy-floppy tail usually goes missing after the second or third pike is caught.

It didn’t take long for all three rods to produce action. I started the ball rolling with a fantastic “trophy” largemouth which was all of 12 or 13 inches long.

After that, bass came in the boat with regularity. Most were considerably less than true trophies, but we did have decent ones of 14 to 17 inches. Nothing bigger, but all fun to catch.

We were not out to keep anything and we didn’t. While a couple of 6-inch bass elicited some guffaws, one of the antics in the boat provided the biggest laughs.

I don’t usually admit to even minor catastrophes while fishing, but we had a few. One went unmatched. In all my years of fishing, I have never had three lines hung up in shoreline brush and trees at the same time.

Mind you, in about 65 years of fishing, I have put my share of lures in such places. More than once, I’ve climbed trees to save a coveted lure that somehow exceeded the expected distance when I turned loose a cast. Just this summer, my son put a Rapala about 20 feet up in a maple which was too small to climb to make a save. As far as I know that lure is still there.

In our moment of collective infamy, we had all three lines tied up. Mr. Bill started things the way you are supposed to. He, in fact, had a nice 14-inch largemouth fighting him which, before it could be landed, had to be allowed some slack line while I maneuvered our craft to the brush to retrieve a cast by Mr. Tom which had sailed a bit too far.

Things would have remained in good order, save for my errant cast —  immediately thrown after Tom’s effort — which sailed farther into a bunch of alder branches than where Tom’s was hung up.

Backing the Old Town up to the brush, the boys worked on untangling and retrieving the two lines that were not attached to a fish. It took a lot of work and some words our moms would have washed our mouths out with soap for, but ultimately both lines were pulled free, jigs and bobbers still attached.

Turning to Bill’s fish, we found that it had descended into the basement, so to speak, and was totally tangled in roots and grass. Again, concerted efforts and choice words led to its capture and subsequent release.

When all was said and done, we figured a day on a secluded north Wisconsin lake which we had to ourselves, with fish cooperating, made it an afternoon about as good as it gets.

Now, as for the opening of duck season. It opened is about all you can say for it, based on my success rate. Still, without shooting a duck opening day, it was one to be remembered.

I stumbled on a pile of wood ducks on one backwoods small lake, passed up a couple of shots at hens and wound up with nothing as I finally flushed all of them out of there unscathed.

The next morning, accompanied by Uncle Hank, we hit the wood duck pond again, or at least we were going to until two of my cousins beat us to it.

They tallied a grand total of one woodie just before we got there. Uncle Hank and I struck out there, but he collected a nice drake woodie from another brush-lined pond later. I shot up some alder brush terribly bad and that was all I hit.

That said, there is — as you read this — much going on at my little white house on the prairie in North Dakota where I am fishing for a couple of days before duck season opens in that state Saturday.

Heaven on Earth awaits me.