SEASON 3, EPISODE 12

Season THREE – Episode 12 – “Hard Day’s Night”

Inside the shelter of the cottage the foursome was bite free. The tiny pests had cut into their skin, piercing it—causing intense irritation with visible long-lasting welts on the uncovered portions of their bodies.

Moments turned to hours post sunset. The captain and first mate were not responding to calls and or text messages from Sally’s burner phone. It had become a “Hard Day’s Night”. Her first of what she assumed would be many, during The Kraken tour in Australia.

She stood peering into the darkness toward the harbor while the balance of her team slept uncomfortably at the kitchen table. Other than the floor, the cabin had zero bedding and furniture on which to lounge. It was simply a meeting place. One that had clearly not been inhabited for years.

Reaching the Blackfin Phantom was becoming more difficult than anticipated. This elite offshore submarine was the ladies’ proverbial ticket to successfully seeking out The Kraken. An obstacle continuously blocked by Too-Tall and Shorty-Short—who now made their way down the mangrove trail toward the hideout!

Meanwhile, Sally quickly made her way around the table in the darkness of the kitchen touching each of her teammates to a calm awakening. As anticipated—by keeping the lights inside the cabin doused after dark—her natural night vision was allowed to view the harbor and trail announcing any arrivals. It was impossible not to identify the two goons who had been in relentless pursuit of her since arriving on the commercial airliner the same day. Their fourth meeting within 24 hours, to be reverently exact.

     “Shhhhhh…” She whispered in an arc from Ellie to William to Hazel, and then back in the opposite direction ending where she had begun. “We’ve been found out, and it’s not our anticipated captain and first mate.”

     “Who’s out there?” William asked.

     At a lower than low tone Sally responded, “It’s the same two thugs that have been upsetting us since my airport arrival, our meeting place in Woodanilling, the stop at the marina on Sand Point Beach, and now somehow here in the middle of god knows where.”

     “Screw this—let’s end these dudes” replied Ellie. You couldn’t see the Glock Gen5 in her dominant right hand, but you could hear her open the action allowing the first bullet in a seventeen round magazine to enter the chamber.

Click—Click—Click were the next three sounds as Sally, Hazel, and William followed suit. “You three ladies make for the back door of the cabin. Get outside and spread yourselves at an equal distance to the south of the building. I’ll stay here at the main entrance to draw any potential fire while you three make your way toward the exit of the harbor” instructed William.

     “How’s that going to get you out of this house?” asked Sally. “With us circling to the harbor, Too-Tall and Shorty-Short in between, and you are exposed alone, how does that play out?”

     “I’ll be fine, just have the bow of the boat pointed toward the direction of the sea and be ready to cast off the moment I arrive.”

Back at the window Sally could see the approaching men now within sixty-five yards of the shelter. “No more safe houses after this,” she thought to herself.

     “EagleTwo, EagleThree let’s go,” Sally instructed. “William we’ll be waiting—good luck.” And with that, the three women existed the back door of the cottage, returned to the blessed greeting of the no-see-ums, and made their way silently cutting a wide swath to the south as instructed.

The Caye was overgrown with brambles and bushes alike, allowing for little variance from harbor trail to house. This kept Too-Tall and Shorty-Short within plain view for William. This also kept Sally—Ellie—Hazel blindly entangled in treefall, swarthy vegetation, and relentless uneven terrain in their attempt to escape unnoticed.

Neither of the three complained an audible beep while navigating the dark. The biting insects in heavy foliage were so overwhelming that you dare not open your eyes or ultimately open your mouth.

Hazel found herself holding her breath much of the way. Ellie used her length of blonde hair as a filtering mechanism to cover her nose in-between inhales and exhales. Sally brought up the rear being forcibly beaten by ricocheting branches—exhaust clouds of pissed off no-see-ums—and then there were gunshots!

Not in the women’s direction. The reports were coming from the north and traveling west. Trail to cottage. Too-Tall and Shorty-Short firing on William. Two on one—in the dead of night.

Creating her own orders, Sally broke rank and double-timed it back to the south side of the cabin. She could both see and hear William now responding with deafening shots of his own.

The foliage between her present position on the Caye, and the distance to the main trail was so intense that only brightness brought on by muzzle blasts would highlight the location of the two aggressors. She needed to get closer—quickly—the agonizing wail of a man shredded by bullets had just exuded from the cottage. William was no longer returning volleys of gunfire.

 The warmth from the barrel stove—saltine cracker crispy crappie fillets—day one of a one-hundred sixty-eight-day season. Tiredness from the cold night of spring and their thorough rain drenched soaking day was now wrapped in a heated wave around both Rusty and Cos.

          “Day one Cos” Rusted spoke in a fashion that requested a response.

          “Yep… And I firmly believe that’s how we’re going to have to have them, Rusty. One at a time.”

          And then he continued, “This is new territory for both you and me. A marathon—not a sprint. A new start—not the same ol’ same ol’. We are stepping away from the day to the day trivia of the world and forging a future on fishing. And maybe that’s what draws anglers to the far ends of the world. It’s fishing—it’s a chance to step back in time—and we’ll be here too—greeting them.”

          “Hey Cos…Aren’t you worried about not being able to get the daily report of the news, based on where we’re now living?”

          “Not so much Rusty. Maybe it’s my age—but I assume if something super important happens—someone will tell us.”

          “Sounds like a plan.” And with that—Rusty rose to stoke the fire just as the generator skipped an unannounced beat, sputtered coughingly, and spat out a slow death. The lights in the lodge flickered briefly before total darkness took over, leaving Rusty to trip over Link who had been lying comfortably on the throw rug in front of the barrel stove.

Cos struck a match to his boot heel—aided Rusty to his feet—reviewed the goose egg on his noggin—suggested they retreat to the couches in the lodge for the balance of the evening. “Let’s call it a Hard Day’s Night Rusty. Day two is tomorrow.”

–            To Be Continued – 

MARCH 28 FISHING REPORT

Walleye fishing Ballards Resort Lake of the Woods, MN
​Hey Sportsfans!
 
The 2024-2025 Winter Season is complete. Thank you to everyone who made the trip up to see us this winter! We had good ice, and some of the best WALLEYE FISHING we have seen in recent years.
 
Looking to make a trip up this spring to fish the Rainy River? There is open water near Birchdale, so it won’t be long and the ice in front of the resort will be gone. Give us a shout if you are heading this way, we offer discounted lodging at $50 per person, per night until the May opener. 
—
Off Season Bar Hours:
 
Monday – Wednesday… serving drinks and pizza 11am-8pm
Thursday-Sunday… serving drinks and bar menu 11am-10pm
 
Off Season Specials:
Thursday – BOGO Burgers
Friday – BOGO 50% Off Walleye Tacos
Saturday – 99¢ Smoked Wings
Sunday – BOGO 50% Off Buffalo Chicken Wrap + $5 Bloody’s & Caesars
—
Did you hear about the BANGER trip we have scheduled with Nordo and KFAN Radio at Ballard’s Resort?! Yep–it’s happening—–NOW IS THE TIME to make your summer reservations. 
 
 
We hope to see you soon, but until then SET THE HOOK!
Walleye fishing Ballards Resort Lake of the Woods, MN

SEASON 3, EPISODE 11

Season THREE – Episode 11 – “The Musky’s Mysterious Wink”

The fragrance of roasting acorns filled the lodge as the smoke dissipated.  Rusty and Cos stood motionless—straining to identify the tic-tic-tic-tic-tic on the tin roof that coexisted with the pattern of rainfall. Even Link had one ear cocked—sitting—staring at the ceiling.

Inquisitively, the trio exited the building, retreated to the out of doors, and positioned themselves in the middle of the camp yard with a bird’s eye view of the roof. There was a mass of animal kingdom (miniature red squirrels) formed in two gigantic lines. The first line of volunteers was retrieving what appeared to be a thousand years’ worth of acorns from access under the chimney crown. The second line of helpers were exiting the chimney flue marching single file bearing the contents of their storage elevator.

“Teamwork makes the dreamwork” thought Rusty as he witnessed the pine squirrels working effortlessly in unison. From the peak of the roof, they dashed down to the eve, leaped to the limb of a Norway, and transported their supplies safely to the ground where they were temporarily stored in a burrowed hole along the lakeshore, beneath an exposed granite rock the size of a Volkswagen Beetle.

Morale seemed high among the troops—dropping their cargo—falling back in line—returning to the chimney—merrily singing their chattering calls along the trail.

“Rusty, the more I look about this rain-soaked property, the more inclined I am to think we need to recruit our own team of laborious squirrels. We have two weeks and some change before our first guests arrive. Tomorrow morning, we should return to the town of Jackfish and see if we can enroll the services of some locals, either on a temporary or full-time basis.”

“I agree Cos… Not to say it’s overwhelming, but I WOULD use the word daunting. Plus, supporting our new business with local employees would be positive for us and for this area. Never a bad thing to seek out local talent.”

     “Then it’s agreed—Now let’s make our way up to what I assume is the generator shed on top of the hill behind the lodge. We need to get this property, the buildings, and all its necessary equipment powered up before losing daylight. Maybe even catch a fish off the dock for supper.”

The generator building sat at the peak of the island approximately two hundred meters from the camp clearing. Two of the most immediate offerings were ONE: There was a middle of the road cell signal obtainable from this peak that held a relatively consistent note, if you tilted your phone at a 45-degree angle facing the southwest.

SECOND offering: the wrap-around walkway attached to the generator shed presented a magnificent view of the lake—along with a clear shot of the docks in the protected harbor—of which Hooked on Poutine was currently nowhere to be seen.

     “Rusty, where the hell’s our passenger boat?!” fired Professor Scale.

     “Uh, didn’t you tie it to the dock after I parked?” retorted Rusty.

     “Rusty, you’re the one who pulled the boat into the harbor—put the nose on the beach—stern against the dock—and said we’re good, let’s get unloaded!”

The formidable southeast wind that blew was consistent with its ability to remove Hooked on Poutine further and further from sight of the island. Scale and Flathers stood on the ends of adjacent docks glassing the horizon through rain dripped binocular lenses. There was an hour before sunset—each was soaked to the bone—the fire in the lodge had suffocated itself several hours prior—and the hum of the diesel generator indicated it was performing imperfectly on five cylinders versus the allotted six, provided by the manufacturer.

     “Well, I guess there’s not much we can do about it tonight” offered Cos. I’m going up to the lodge to get the barrel stove going. It appears our compadres, the red squirrels, have completed their task of clearing the chimney pipe. Why don’t you see if you can change our luck and land a couple of fresh fish for dinner—I need to be done for the day.”

Inside the dock house, hanging in the rafters, Rusty located what appeared to be a vintage B’n’M graphite spinning rod built specifically for crappie fishing in the early 1970’s. This was the first of its kind—long handle and fore grip—lightweight and sensitive—the action of bamboo but the balance that allowed an angler to vertically jig.

With Link standing by his side at the end of the dock Rusty tipped the 1/16oz chartreuse jig with a miniature pearl white twister tail, flipped open the bail on the spinning reel, and pitched the bait into the lake. Experience would lead him to believe they were in approximately 13ft of water. In his angler’s mind a lucky number. There were twelve disciples plus Jesus.

Better yet—of the group you had Simon and Andrew (brothers and fishermen)—James and John (also brothers and fishermen)—thus giving Rusty the sense that as an avid angler himself, he was in pretty good company. And then the perceived depth of 13 feet proved favorable.

Link yipped and bounded on his hind legs as Rusty hoisted the first crappie from below the dock and dangled it with line in hand just beyond the pup’s reach. Its flapping tail evoked its will to return to water—and Rusty obliged with his superstitious belief that by returning your first caught fish to the lake, the fish gods would come back and smile upon you tenfold.

Do not contest the vibe of the Disciples or the fish gods. Bite after bite—fish after fish—the crappies committed themselves to his hook and all returned safely to their habitat, albeit a sparring few kept for the pleasure of teasing the palate, feeding hunger, and fulfilling the ancient hunter gatherer instinct.

     “Rusty how goes it down there?” shouted Cos from the deck of the lodge.

     “Wonderful! I’ve got enough for supper. I’ll be up in a minute. You want to put some beans and potatoes on?”

In the next instant there was a tug on his line—one that bent rod tip to handle—line peeling from an underpowered reel. Rusty took two steps back from the edge of the dock and buried the rod butt into his waistline to gain leverage. Link was on standby for assistance—peering into the depths below with his nose very near water.

With rain decreasing and sun yourself weather emerging for the first time in days, a giant musky broke the surface and tail danced across the water with an approximate two-pound walleye in its clenches. The angle of the sunlight was such that its ferocious teeth shone like electric sparks on a short-circuiting wire.

After that a stout head shake snapped the line—momentarily “The Musky’s Mysterious Wink” thanked Rusty for the assist—then he returned below depths to enjoy an evening meal.

Meanwhile the island puppy mascot Link, who struggled earlier that same day with his inability to swim, hurriedly retreated to the haven of dry land. His chattering teeth and rose hair indicated an attitude toward whether recreational swimming would be in his future after seeing the great fish.

Sally—Ellie—Hazel—collaborator William—rested impatiently inside their newly instructed meeting place. The no-see-ums brought on by darkness had ravaged them in the mangrove harbor of the Caye and relentless biting had pursued them along the entire trail to the safehouse.

Now they waited for William’s captain and first mate to return with a second vessel. An opportunity to pool resources and safely connect with the Blackfin Phantom submarine. Additionally, they had been informed there were two passengers in custody. There was to be an interrogation upon their arrival at the Caye.

-To Be Continued-

SEASON 3, EPISODE 10

Season THREE – Episode 10 – “Bait and Switch”

Entering the parking lot of the marina at Sand Point Beach—the third parking space to the left of the entry was available—Sally whipped the Toyota Corolla into the gap and slid the gear shifter into park.

“You two wait here I’ll be back in a shake. Gimme that backpack” requested Sally. Then she removed one of the Austrian made Glock Gen5’s from the bag and slid it into her jacket pocket. This would be added insurance per chance anyone inside had intentions of pulling a “Bait and Switch”.

The bell on the glass door jingled as she put her shoulder into the weight of the hinged restrictor arm that controls the tension between the door and the wall. Inside the aerators ran boldly outweighing the noise of anglers and shop keepers exchanging cash for baited dreams.

Opposite the entry of the building were metal sliding doors cast open to the salt breeze coming off the bay. You could taste the humidity that hung in the air and suddenly Sally caught herself wondering why she had agreed to this mission and was not living her fashion world life of photo shoots and fishing adventures.

Vintage black and white photographs—faded color prints—current computer printed action shots lined the walls of the store boasting broad smiles and magnificent catches. “I wonder how Rusty and Link are faring” was her next thought.

Then a man with a basket containing beach worms, pilchards, and fresh squid bumped her torso and broke the trance. “Excuse me mam—might I help you find something?” he offered.

“Ahhh yes” responded Sally, I have an afternoon charter fishing excursion booked. Might you point me in the direction of where to check in?”

     “Absolutely—My name is William—I’m with Catch Me If You Canuck fish packaging. Follow me outside to the pier and I’ll help you locate the charter manager.”

     “Thanks” Sally responded. “My fishing friends refer to me as EagleOne.”

There were no less than 50 sportfishing boats tied to the dock—along with that many empty slips that were currently void of boats. Most likely angling enthusiasts already out of the harbor and on the big water chasing Australian salmon.

Sally made her way down the pier following the man with the basket of bait. The afternoon sun glorified the shallow turquoise water and momentarily put her mind at ease. They stopped on the main dock near a Grady-White Canyon 456 center console. The 45ft offshore vessel was powered with Quad XTO Yamaha 450’s giving her 1800 horsepower and a top cruising speed of 58.0 MHP.

     “Waiting—waiting—waiting—” Hazel said aloud to no one in particular. And before she could finish her sentence the Ford Falcon GT-HO Phase III street rod from back in Woodanilling appeared in her passenger side mirror.

     “What is it?” Ellie tensed.

     “I just caught a glimpse of Too-Tall and Shorty-Short going by in the Falcon. Grab the backpack and let’s go!”

With Hazel leading the charge—she and Ellie burst through the front entry of the bait shop and immediately caught sight of Sally standing 50-yards down the pier next to a boat with three men on board who appeared to be amid a conversation.

First, she heard the commotion inside the bait shop—then from her peripheral Sally witnessed EagleTwo and EagleThree on the dead sprint coming her direction. Pulling the Glock Gen5 from her jacket she produced the firearm and queried, “Permission to come aboard gentleman?” Then followed by adding “Get this skiff fired up—here comes my team!”

The captain and first mate were left at the dock while newly acquired contact William powered the skiff at half-step out of the harbor and toward the blue of the ocean. Sally, Ellie, and Hazel were below deck of the center console changing to more appropriate summer sportfishing wear, disguising themselves as fishing tourists, and cleverly hiding miscellaneous weapons being shared amongst the trio.

Five miles offshore they arrived at what appeared to be an uninhabited Caye with William idling down the Quad Yamaha’s—trimming jack plates to shallow water mode—entering a natural harbor parting mangroves to conceal the boat.

“Waiting—waiting—waiting—” Hazel once again said aloud as William had called for them to join him on the main deck as the newly formed foursome awaited further instruction. Five minutes—ten minutes—half hour—the satellite phone rang.

     “Copy that” was Williams’ only response. Then he returned the phone to the console compartment, ignited the four Yamaha outboard motors, and backed his way out of the hidden mangrove channel.

     “What’s the plan?” asked Sally.

     “We are to reunite with the captain and first mate whom we left back at the marina. They have acquired another vessel, along with two passengers, and plan to meet us further west at a Caye with a safehouse.

     “Safehouse?” responded Ellie and then heavily exhaled. “The last time I heard that—It ended up with me being knocked out—bound and gagged.”

William spun the Grady-White in a one-eighty, powered up the Quad XTO Yamaha’s, and was quickly on step heading west toward their instructed rendezvous. Sally stood fast in the co-pilot’s position brooding to herself over the possibility of being drawn into a “Bait and Switch”.

Back at the island on Lac des Bois—Rusty Flathers and Professor Cosmoid Scale were spinning in one-eighties as well. The barrel stove in the main lodge had heated the building quickly enough, but the unidentified varmints who had built a nest inside the upper portion of the stove pipe were now responsible for an overwhelming backdraft of smoke filling the building.

Clearing about in circles inside the main lodge, both Rusty and Cos bumped and bounced and spun their way toward windows to escape the smoke. Outside the rains continued and there were more geese gathering in the harbor—questioning the puffs of clouds exiting the lodge.

One gander let out a raucous “HERRRR-ONKKKK” and Rusty was undecided if it was a statement of alarm, or he and Cos were being wildly laughed at. The verdict remained at large.

-To Be Continued-